Playing for Keeps
by UnluckyStar57
Summary: Pool is anything but a game. Play with caution, because you're playing for keeps.
1. Shooting Star, After Midnight

**Author's Note: Hello, and thanks for stopping by my story! I've published 15 chapters on HPFF, but I'd like to have it here on as well. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to leave a review if you have questions/comments/concerns! :)**

Chapter One: Shooting Star, After Midnight

The Shooting Star Casino was a vast, glittering den of temptations and devilry. Written on the patrons' faces were the signs of vice and virtue; too much alcohol consumed, too much money wasted on the slot machines. There at the edge of Muggle and Wizarding London, the two worlds collided in an array of kaleidoscopic fancies. There were Muggle amusements—poker, slots, roulette—but they all had a Wizarding twist. The dealers levitated the decks and a gambler never knew when his hand of cards would blow up in his face—literally.

It was a place where alcohol flowed freely at the bar and at the game tables, sometimes a little _too_ freely when some sot knocked over his glass. That was the hook: first drink free, and then you were caught on the stuff. The blazing firewhiskey assaulted your senses, hazing your mind and putting you in that blissful state where inhibitions no longer existed. The bacchanalia raged every night, people getting drunk on the dance floor and getting drunker when they lost at cards. The nights passed in a blur of rainbow colors, blistering cacophony, and the scent of aged liquor.

But in the back of the casino, removed from the pandemonium by a nondescript wall, the real player of the night performed her dance. I was the hustler, the disco dame who drew in unsuspecting customers and beguiled them out of their money and time. I danced on a stage with no boundaries, weaving intricate patterns with my body and mind.

I was the pool player, con woman of the century, endowed with the ability to drive any man wild with just one stroke of the cue. Eyes wild, dress tight, voice smoky with the fake promise of lust and adventure, I spun a web of lies that could trick even the most astute male.

In the depths of the evening when things began to happen, there was only one other pool player in the hall, one solitary soul who probably lost at the Exploding Snap table and wanted to play a few rounds before he had to Apparate home to his unforgiving wife. He was a sorry-looking bloke, hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot, though it was probably less from the whiskey than it was from losing sleep. Freddy Weasley, my boss, always said that those are the worst patrons: not the rowdy drunks, but the lucid losers who just wouldn't leave.

My sequined dress clung to my skin as I sauntered over to his table. "Wanna play?" I purred, beginning the game that could only end in my victory.

The man looked at me with bleary eyes, but as he took in the cognac-hued tightness of my outfit, his face began to clear. He shifted stiffly out of his crouch, shuffling his cue from his right hand to his left. The wedding band on his finger glinted in the dim light and I smirked to myself. Someone was going to be in trouble with his wife when he got home.

"Sure, I'll play," the man grunted, a slow smile creeping across his broad, unshaven mug. "I could probably teach you a thing or two, sweetheart."

I reached behind me and grabbed a cue off the wall. "I'm sure you could, daddy-o. Should I rack them up, or will you?"

He looked uncertain about this, which wasn't surprising. If I racked them up, I got the "upper hand," but if he racked them up, he would be "subordinating himself" to a woman. What he didn't know is that either way, he was going to lose.

Flashing me a slightly lecherous smile, he pointed. "The rack's over there, darling. Let's see what you can do."

I turned away, rolling my eyes at his innuendo-ridden speech. Lately, all the men who haunted the pool tables had been like this. They couldn't accept the fact that a woman was issuing them a challenge, an oddity made worse by the "uniform" that Freddy forced me to wear.

I silently Summoned the balls from their pockets and tucked my wand back into the front of my dress. The man stared at me as I do so, a blatant act of voyeurism that, in my younger days, would have made me blush. But that night, I pushed my annoyance aside and racked the balls, yellow one at the head of the pyramid, black eight dead center, solids and stripes alternating all around. It was the standard racking practice, giving no player an edge over the other.

The man was impressed. "Well, you know your stuff, love, but how well do you play?"

I batted my eyes as I had been trained to do. "You'll have to find out for yourself, won't you?" The flirtation was sickening, but it is a man's world, after all. Let them think that a sexy maiden wouldn't bring them to their knees—figuratively, of course.

But this was only a game of pool, and the man had taken on a swagger that I was sure he didn't have before. "I'll break," he announced, assuming the studied stance of a man who had played pool more times than he can remember.

A light thud as cue connected with plain white ball. A crack as ball collided with pyramid. The dull thunder of an array of colors rolling around the table. Three balls—solid green six, striped orange thirteen, solid purple four—ambled slowly into the pockets, taking their time.

He was pleased, and silently went for a shot at the solid yellow one, missing by a mile. Perhaps he was more inebriated than I had originally thought. At the very least, his failure to spot my trap for what it was indicated that he wasn't of sound mind, anyways.

"My turn," I intoned softly. I crouched low against the table, a parody of myself, and took a shot at nothing in particular. The cue ball went wild, scattering the remaining balls about, but none went in. If the man were more observant, he would have noticed that my elementary shooting technique was due to the fact that I was not right-handed, as evidenced by the waving of my wand. But he wasn't, so my ruse was allowed to continue.

A few more strokes from my cocky companion, and nearly all the solids had been knocked into pockets. The one that remained was the most crucial, and he leered at me as he angles his body in the perfect position to knock it home.

"Top corner pocket," he declared, complying with the ancient rule of the last stroke of pool. "Looks like you should've stayed home, doll." And with that, he slammed the eight ball into the corner pocket.

My look of disappointment was completely fake. "Ohhhh, I thought I almost had you beat!" I cried, feigning disappointment. He approached me, skirting the table with a mincing step for someone with such a wide girth.

Offering me his hand, he chuckled. "Well, you didn't, did you? I used to beat all the lads at pool in my school days. There's not much anyone can do to beat _me,_ that's for sure."

I shook his hand, trying not to think about its steamy dampness or where it might've been before it made contact with mine. "Yes, you certainly got me," I giggled. "But I don't want you to go!"

A look of surprise crossed his face. It must've been a long time since a woman paid him much attention. "You don't?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "I want to play again, but this time, I don't want to play for fun."

"You want to lay a wager on it?" He looked positively befuddled by this. The casino's typical gamblers were male, and it was plain to see that in his mind, the idea of women and betting didn't mix.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," I said conspiratorially. "I bet you… Five Galleons that I win our next match."

The befuddlement doesn't lift, but as he tapped his beefy chin with one stubby finger, I could see that I had him. That was always the way they came. Hook, line, and sinker.

"That sounds like a fine idea, sweetheart. I could use some more gold," he finally said.

I smiled and gave him a slow wink. "Excellent. You rack, I break."

"Just one more game," the man begged. "I can't go home like this." It had been two hours, and we had played five games, my technique growing better and better every time. For the first three, I let him beat me, offering him a larger wager each time. Like a moth to a flame, he couldn't resist the allure of asserting dominance, taking gold from a woman who seemed to have forgotten her place.

But as he grew more distracted by the thought of money, my right hand stopped hindering my technique. The last two games were quick knock-outs, and the wager just kept growing. Like a spider in her lair, I had my juicy little fly completely trapped at all sides, unable to escape my web.

I sighed dejectedly. "I'm sure that I'm just having a stroke of beginner's luck, but I can feel it ending. I've had such a nice time with you. I tell you what: Let me play one more game with you, and this time, it's double or nothing. If you win, I'll give you double the money that we've wagered so far. If I win, you can give me the amount of the wager, no more or less. Does that sound fair?"

At my talk of beginner's luck running out, the grin returned and he shoved a hand through his grungy hair. "Yeah, that sounds fair," he leered. I could almost hear his thoughts: _Yeah, fair for me!_ Men at the casino loved it when they thought they were getting a good deal from the devil, but what they didn't know is that the devil is in the details.

For instance, the fact that I switched my cue from my right hand to my left as he broke for the last time. No balls fell into the pockets. He was getting tired, but I was only just beginning. Forcing the smile on my face to remain neutral and vapid instead of conniving and vengeful, I aligned myself with the white ball. I took my time, because there was no hurry to win this game.

This was my favorite part of every evening.

Breathing deeply, I focused in on the nondescript ball, the one that was responsible for connecting with all of the others, a medium between me and victory. With a deft backward pull of the stick, I shoved it forward and drove the white ball right into a cluster of balls that his weak break was unable to separate.

They scattered, the striped red eleven immediately rolling into the top right corner pocket and the others—striped blue, solid green, striped purple, solid red, striped orange—rolling about the table in a dizzying dance. The three stripes made contact with other balls, knocking another stripe in before rolling in the opposite direction, each aligning with a pocket.

I didn't bother to suppress my wolfish grin now. This would be an easy clean-up. Aiming for the striped blue ten, I sent the balls flying once again, scoring two more stripes, the nine and the fifteen. Several of the solids had fallen into the pockets, but I ignored them. In pool, knocking your opponent's balls in only caused you to forfeit if you didn't knock in any of yours first. My opponent would certainly not be wielding his cue stick again tonight.

It was time to bring everything to a close, and I quickly glanced at my opponent to notice his shocked reaction before I tapped the cue ball and watch it work its magic. The three remaining stripes—blue, purple, and orange—all toppled gently into the bulging pockets.

"I guess I'm just really lucky tonight," I smirked, taking aim at the last, most important ball. "Right middle pocket!"

I heard the man snort from where he watched, as much out of jealousy as it was out of disbelief. The middle pockets were the most difficult ones to make, and the eight ball was nowhere near either of them. I liked to think of this move as my grateful farewell to my victims, one final blow before they left me with their purses empty. However, the truth was that I was just a showoff.

But a damn good one, at that.

A lithe motion, the tap of cue on ball, the resounding _crack!_ of white ball on black. The gentle thunder as the black ball rolled around the table in angles and lines, finally coming to rest in the right middle pocket.

The look on the man's face was priceless. "But—I—you—we…" he stuttered, unable to even string a coherent sentence together. I flashed him a winning smile. My pool skills often had that effect on men.

"My luck just didn't run out!" I gushed, still playing my part. "But a deal's a deal, and you owe me three hundred and twenty Galleons." For every game we played, the wager was doubled. He was lucky that I took pity on him and was content to accept the current wager as my winnings.

The man sighed, taking out his moneybag. "Bonnie's going to kill me," he groaned, dishing out the Galleons. He'd had a fairly good night at the slots, but his luck had run out. All of his money came back to me, and I work for Freddy Weasley.

I smiled at him as he counted the gold out in tall stacks. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her." I winked one last time for good measure, and his smile made another appearance. This time, though, it wavered. Men had been known to cry when Fair Fortune decided to frown upon them.

With a heavy sigh, he finished counting out the gold and stood up. "You're a natural, love," he admitted with a shake of his head.

"Oh, you're sweet," I giggled, my voice saccharine on my tongue. The sooner that this guy cleared out, the better. It was well past one in the morning, and I was ready to get out of my itchy sequined dress and enter the land of dreams. "Will I see you again?"

"No," he grunted, grabbing his hat from a table. "I'm done with this place, at least until Bonnie says I can come back." Ah, now that he'd lost to a woman, he finally realized who has the true power. I was sure that Bonnie would give him a good hiding when he staggered in during the wee hours of the morning. It was a thought that only sweetened my triumph.

The man exited the room closing the door softly behind him. Music pulsed by the dance floor, reverberating around the casino and rattling the walls of the pool room slightly. I sighed and sat down, slipping my feet out of my five-inch heels. At last, I was alone with the red walls and my hard-earned gold.

"Brava," said a voice from the shadows, shattering my state of blissful relaxation. There was a sound of sarcastic clapping as the hidden observer emerged from the gloom, and my veins filled with ice when I saw his face.

It seemed that the night was not over for me yet.


	2. A Face From the Past

Playing for Keeps Chapter 2: A Face From the Past

"Don't you know who I am?"

Of course I knew who he was. It had been a very long time since I last saw this man, my tormentor, my bully, the shadowy figure of my nightmares, but the smirk, the arrogance, and the elegance of his form had not changed. The son of the Wizarding World's own Messiah and the star Keeper for the Kenmare Kestrels had fame and adoration heaped upon his head since his birth, but I was not one of his avid fans. To me, he was not a saint, but a devil, a ghost of the past come back to haunt me once more. He would not have his way with i _me_ ,/i for years of torment and anguish taught me to suppress my fear and replace it with anger.

I did not dignify his arrogant question with an answer. Even after all the time that had passed, my head was filling with those old familiar fears. I forced them back into the dusty corners of my memory. The past belongs to the past, and I was not who I once was. I could not let fear define me.

He began his slow approach, the dim light playing on his dark hair and causing his hazel eyes to glitter eerily. Despite my defiance, my protests of strength and fearlessness, I was spellbound. I was not infallible, after all—and perhaps I never would be. I could vaguely feel my stilettos dangling from my fingertips, forgotten, as I rose from my seat. He smirked again and his eyes roamed up and down my sequin-clad body, taking in my smudged makeup and my disheveled blonde hair. It was the gaze of a predator, as if I were a particularly delectable antelope standing in the path of a ravenous lion. (Or in more modern terms, a fine cut of meat on the butcher's block under scrutiny of a masculine steak connoisseur.) Regardless, it was obvious that he liked what he saw, but he only saw the surface. My spirit was no longer as breakable as glass.

Gaining confidence in my position—this was my home turf—I broke the spell of the ridiculous waiting game that he was trying to play with me. "How long have you been in here?" My voice came out soft, but the tone of warning was unmistakable.

It only caused his smirk to widen. "Long enough." He closed the gap between us, and though there was still space, it was too close. Too close…

"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked, not meeting his eyes. I looked over his shoulder, avoiding his burning hazel gaze. Once, I melted under that gaze, cracked under pressure, was vulnerable. I knew that I could meet his eye if I chose, but I preferred to pretend that he scarcely existed in front of me. Perhaps he would take a hint and get lost. Or perhaps my aloofness would make him even more persistent.

It was the latter. A light touch on my shoulder. A scent of aged mead and spicy peppermint. More of that dizzying closeness that practiced seducers seem to employ to such a great effect. So much went into one simple move, and I could feel my shoulders tense up as he leaned in. His voice tickled my ear, a whisper so soft that I could barely hear it above the thumping bass outside. "I saw what you did to that man."

I side-stepped to avoid him, hoping that he did not notice my shudder. It was all too apparent that he was attempting to seduce me, but his charms would be better used on a more naïve girl. "What of it?" I responded, more sharply this time.

A look of confusion flitted across his face, but it was quickly replaced with that interminable leer as he matched my movement, one step behind. "You tricked him."

"Yes, well?"

"You know how to play this Muggle game."

"Obviously."

My sarcastic drawl was too much for him this time. He took a step back, one eyebrow raised, regarding me with bemusement instead of lust. "Don't you know who I am?" he asked again, his tone sounding more like that of a petulant child than a grown man.

I turned my head in his direction, but again I stared right through him. The spell was completely shattered; he had no power over me. Perhaps he never did. "Why should I know who you are? Do you know who i _I/i_ am?"

His brow wrinkled in confusion. "No? Have we met before?"

Just like that, the world stopped as I realized that he had absolutely no idea who I was. But why should that have shocked me? The years spent in agony in the corridors of Hogwarts, so vivid in my memory, seemed to have faded from his. Back then I was weak and defenseless, and he had the upper hand at all times.

But oh, how I had changed since then.

I looked him directly in the eyes, my mouth quirked into an ironic smile. "Not at all. I was merely reciprocating your question in the hopes that the relevance of this conversation would begin to make itself known."

The confusion persisted in his expression. "You really don't know who I am?"

Ah, poor little rich boy. The firstborn of the most venerated of all modern wizards was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father's fame and his mother's Quidditch prowess opened doors for him that no mere mortal could ever walk through. At Hogwarts, he was the apple of the professors' eyes and the darling of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. For his entire life, the world had roared his name in celebration and triumph, exalting him like a minor deity. That someone should not know his name was inconceivable, ludicrous.

It was to my advantage that I remembered what he forgot, that all his memories of me were washed away by the ceaseless waves of time. The little girl he taunted and oppressed was all grown up but the names that he had for me were still etched invisibly into my skin. There never was a better—or a sweeter—time for revenge.

It was my turn to smirk. "Am I i _supposed/i_ to know your name?"

He opened his mouth to respond and then paused, reconsidering his answer. If he said yes, he would sound arrogant. If he said no, he would seem foolish.

I waited for him to speak, feeling rather vindictive. If someone had told me four years ago that I would one day face off against the person who caused my worst fears and actually gain the upper hand, I would have died of laughter. But the years passed, the tables turned, and I now had a few aces up my sleeve. My fragile self of long ago was encased in a shield of diamond, impossible to wound and fatal to touch. It was those vulnerable years that pressurized me, and it was this man who was a catalyst for my transformation.

The struggle on his face was almost comical. Apparently, he never learned how to play cards properly, for he could not keep up his flimsy poker face. Underneath his cocky façade, he was only an amateur trying to play the game of the gods.

"My name is James Potter." The truth burst from his lips like a gust of wind, as if he had been holding it in for a long time. I quirked an eyebrow at him, and he sheepishly continued, "Surely you've heard of my dad, Harry? He's kind of famous…. And my mum, too. She was a Quidditch player, like me. I'm a Quidditch player. Don't you follow Quidditch…?"

His ungainly, juvenile speech trailed off on a note of incredulity. For someone who lived his entire life under the public eye, giving speeches and attending parties with damsels that he wooed, he was perfectly inarticulate in private. Especially in this situation, in which I was completely unimpressed by his nepotistic credentials. He was used to women swooning at the sound of his voice and loud applause when his name was announced, but he had no effect on me. I would not allow him to have any effect on me. In that instant, I had stunned him better than any spell ever could.

"I most certainly do," I replied, placing my stilettoes on a table top. I brushed his shoulder—very purposefully—as I walked past him. "But I've never heard of _you._ " Never before had I realized how exhilarating it could be to make someone feel insignificant. The look of dismay that overtook his features was my reward for the hell that he put me through for all those years.

"Wha—but, how? You—I mean, if you follow Quidditch, you've heard of the Kenmare Kestrals, surely, and I'm their Keeper…."

"I support Puddlemere United," I interrupted him, flicking my wand nonchalantly to Summon the fifteen colored balls out of their pockets once more. This impromptu recapitulation of the grisly past started off unsteadily, but now that I had taken him down a notch, I was in my element. It was time to play another game.

"What?! They've got an i _awful/i_ record this season! Their Beaters don't even know how to…."

"Fancy a game of pool?" I asked, ignoring his rambling about foolish Quidditch rivalries and tossing him a cue stick. (Which he caught almost reflexively due to his years of skill built up on the hallowed Quidditch pitch.) "I was planning on going home for the night, but I can make an exception."

His hand crept toward his eyes, reaching for invisible glasses. I remembered that tic of his from our Hogwarts years, when the phantom spectacles were real. It always happened when he was talking to a pretty girl—perhaps the only time in his life that he felt nervous. If he knew who he was dealing with, he probably wouldn't be doing that. It was for the best that his memory was so selective. (It must have been because of all the alcohol—mulled mead, wild nights of bacchanalian celebration and equally wild nights of dismay at a loss….)

"Actually," he began. "I can't."

"Why? Scared that you'll get your arse handed to you like that poor bastard did? And by a girl, no less!" I mocked him. "My, what a tragedy that would be!"

"No, it's—I—"

I cut him off with my approach, shoving his cue stick towards his chest. "Well, Potter? Will you play or won't you?"

"I don't know how to play pool!" The words echoed through the empty room and he winced and looked away from me as the truth finally came out. "I—I mean—I made this bet, and if I don't learn how to play pool, bad things are going to happen, and I mean i _really/i_ bad things, so…."

I could barely contain the grin on my face, but for the sake of the game of cat-and-mouse that we were playing, I arranged my expression into one of utter apathy. (That night, I transformed from mouse to cat, and I couldn't have been happier.) "I'm not seeing the point here, Potter."

"I mean, I came here to see if someone knew how to play pool, and I thought that drunk man looked like he knew what he was doing, but then you tricked him, so…." he paused to catch his breath and then mumbled something that I could not hear.

"Come again?"

"Would you teach me how to play Muggle pool?"

Well, this was a plot twist. My insides flared up with anger and I yanked the cue stick out of his grasp. "No, Potter. I will not teach you how to play pool."

He shoved his hands through his hair as I turned to put the cue sticks back on their wall hooks. "W-why not? Just a minute ago, you offered to play—"

My laugh came out higher than I expected. In fact, it was much less of a laugh than it was a cackle. Perhaps I was a true witch, after all.

"Potter, you might be used to getting your way in life—you've got a famous father, after all—but that does not mean that everyone has to do as you ask. How many fangirls do you have because of your last name? How many people cheer your name at Quidditch matches? Oh yes, I know exactly who you are," I spouted sardonically. "And it is precisely that which compels me to deny your request. I asked you to play pool so that I could puncture your massive ego once more, but I am i _not/i_ going to spend my time teaching some spoiled, rich, arrogant i _bastard/i_ how to play a sport that he didn't even know existed until the necessity arose for him to care about it."

My explosive speech overwhelmed him. With a few lengthy strides he was in front of me, grabbing my shoulders. As he spoke, his eyes glint maniacally. "You don't understand! My cousin is a gambler, a cheat! He knows things about me that could ruin my reputation! Can you imagine me, the son of Harry Potter, with sordid secrets exposed to the world?! The i _Daily Prophet/i_ would have a field day! If I don't win this bet, I might as well be dead!" He shook me as he spoke his last few words, whether unconsciously or to emphasize his point, I did not know. But the closeness was too much, everything was too much, and I spun out of his grasp, leaving him with empty hands.

"Why should that be i _my/i_ problem? I am just an innocent civilian whom you attempted to seduce and then accosted with words. There is no reason why I should be sympathetic to your plight."

With that, I snatched my stilettoes off the table and turned to march out of the room. I should have gone home hours ago.

"Wait!" At his voice, I turned back and he shrank away, as if he had been reaching out to me. "What's your name?"

"James Potter," I snapped. "You don't deserve to know my name." Every good witch and wizard knew that there was power in the naming of people and things. He knew my name once, years ago, but he used it against me, perverting it so that it came to define who I was. I could never let that happen again.

Still, he was persistent, undeterred by my shrewishness. "No, please! I—I can pay you. I'll do anything if you'll teach me how to play this game. i _Please/i_ help me."

I regarded him coolly. For the first time since he made himself known to me, I felt perfectly calm. No, I felt numb. My insides were like ice as I stepped back in his direction, looking up at him with utter disdain.

"James Potter," I said calmly. "Nothing on this i _earth/i_ can persuade me to help i _you./i_ "

And with that, I was gone, walking away from James Potter, away from the pool room, away from the Shooting Star Casino.

It felt an awful lot like I was walking away from a war.


	3. Mint Chocolate Chip Memories

Playing for Keeps Chapter Three: Mint Chocolate Chip Memories

Stepping out into the muggy summer darkness, I let out a shaky breath before Disapparating away from the godforsaken night I'd had. I stumbled a bit as I landed exactly in front of the door to my flat, a sign that the night had taken its toll on my body as well as my mind. A few muttered incantations to lift the safety wards around the door and I was stepping over the threshold into my humble abode.

I was oddly detached from my body as it went through the usual motions—opening the freezer, taking out the striped carton, sitting down with my spoon at the ready. Before I realized it, I was already starting to spoon the mint chocolate chip ice cream idly into my mouth.

Contrary to what I wanted Potter to believe, I was not nameless. I had a name—first, middle, last—but kids can be i _cruel./i_ I was far removed from my Hogwarts years (I'd turned twenty-one in April), but the nickname that my sister gave me still haunted me.

That bitch. We rarely spoke to each other after we moved out of our parents' house. Too much bad blood between us, but that was a different matter entirely.

The ice cream was just beginning to get soft and runny when I hear the door open. Hattie, fresh from the night shift at St. Mungo's, had come home.

Harriet Ryers, the lovely redhead, was my best friend. We had known each other since those first awkward hours on the Hogwarts Express, and over the years we became comrades and best friends. Though she was only half a year older than me, she was like the big sister I never had, always trying to protect me from the monsters that chased me.

I could hear her thumping around, throwing her purse on the couch and talking in baby language to her Kneazle, Mr. Fuzzykins, but before I could sneak out of the kitchen, she walked into the kitchen. Her rosebud mouth pressed into a grim line. It was rare that I let things bother me so much that ice cream got involved.

"Annie?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. "It's four o'clock in the morning. What happened tonight?"

I chose to ignore her, staring into space as I spooned another sweet, melting bite into my mouth. One sentence, and I could lose my composure. One word, and I would break down.

But dear Hattie was much more persistent than that. She crossed the room in a nanosecond (not a difficult feat, as our kitchen was the size of a matchbox), and planted her hands on the table, staring at me intently.

"Portia. Anne. Collins. _What happened at work?_ "

There it was, folks. The full name. Unfortunately, I didn't choose it; my mother did. And Hattie knew that I hated it. She _knew_ that when I was called by my horrendous first name, I was going to respond in kind. This was tough love, the sort that made me fight back instead of breaking down. Hattie knew that and she used it on me whenever she needed to.

I dropped the spoon into the carton. "Harriet. Agatha. Ryers. _I don't want to talk about it._ "

She scrunched her nose up, a face that only emphasized the freckles scattered across her nose. She hated her name just as much as I hated mine. "Don't call me that, you dweeb."

"Don't call me a dweeb, you dweeb."

"Don't—" But instead of adding another immature insult to the (very short) list that we'd already come up with, she glided around the table. As a professionally trained Healer (top of her training class, actually), she could see through false bravado just as well as she could see that the dragon pox spots on a patient's arm were actually the handiwork of a Magic Marker and a belligerent toddler. (Long story, that.)

"Annie?" I didn't look at her as she sat down beside me, but the light pressure of her arms around my shoulders snapped me out of my angry defensive mode. Throughout the years, Hattie has been the one who rescued me from myself. It was part of her job description, practically.

"What's wrong, Annie?" she said softly, her stern tone evaporating.

I sighed and hugged her back, burying my face in her lime green Healer robes. "Mmfshupfftstsmes."

"I didn't quite catch that, doll."

I looked up. "I was visited by the Ghost of Hogwarts Past at work."

Her mouth rounded into an "o" of shock. She knew who I was talking about. "At the casino?! But why…?"

"It was really strange. He showed up just as I beat my last victim of the night."

As much as Hattie loved to cheer me up, she loved a good story even more. Her blue eyes widened in shock as she leaned back. "Do tell," she breathed.

And so, taking a deep breath, I recounted the whole ghastly tale at four in the morning as the carton of ice cream began to leak in creamy green streaks across the tabletop.

* * *

Hattie and I had technically been roommates ever since our first year at Hogwarts. We met each other as lonely, friendless first years on the Hogwarts Express, and thus, were elated to be Sorted into Hufflepuff together. For me, first year was characterized by a nebulous feeling of never belonging anywhere, and Hattie made the strange new rules and magic classes more bearable.

I still laugh when I think about the way we were back then, because you couldn't have chosen two people who were more different from each other to be best friends. Hattie was a tiny thing at eleven, all knees and elbows and frizzy red hair. She flitted about Hogwarts like a hummingbird, making new friends and always getting the hottest first year gossip from the Gryffindors. She was a Muggleborn (which, some people still claimed, meant that she was inferior—but they were wrong), but she took to magic like a fish takes to water. Within the first month, she was known to all of the professors for her endless questions and nearly-perfect wandwork.

I, by contrast, was extremely, painfully shy. It had always been difficult for me to make friends, and I clung to Hattie as if she were a raft on a stormy sea. I suppose I was her shadow in those first few weeks, following after her as she went off on another trip to the library or to visit Hagrid or "to see where the Hogwarts toilets _actually_ emptied out, anyways." Magic had come late for me and was still elusive at the best of times, so I was her assistant in all of the various "field research projects." Perhaps I was a sidekick, but it was a role that I fit into nicely. I was comfortable with it, content to hold notes and various Muggle tools (magnifying glass, hammer, Whoopee cushion…) and nod silently while Hattie waved her arms around and ranted about science and math.

It was in the times when she ran off with her other friends that I felt insecure, because those were the times in which I was most susceptible to an attack from the so-called "Ghost of Hogwarts Past." The beginning of October saw me hiding in the safety of the Hufflepuff common room more and more often. There, I could couch myself away in a corner, away from the prying eyes of the other badgers. But that wasn't always the most fool-proof hideout and I had to walk the corridors on occasion…

 _Tears rolled slowly down my cheeks as I began to gather my books and papers. My knees and hands were oozing blood. I had run into James Potter—quite literally—and he did not waste the opportunity to make fun of me. A quiet sob escaped from my mouth as I thought of the haphazard whirlwind of paper that had assaulted me a few moments before. His horrible voice and the names that he called me were still ringing in my ears._

 _The sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor, approaching quickly. I looked down, hair falling in my eyes. I was unwilling to let another person see me in such a state._

" _Oh, Portia!" a girl's voice gasped. "What happened?!"_

 _And just like that, salvation came in the form of little Hattie Ryers, who crouched beside me and demanded to know the reason for my tears._

 _I cannot recall the exact words I blubbered to her—something about James Potter and scraped knees—but I think Hattie understood my pain, if not my words._

" _Come on, you," she said sympathetically. "James Potter is a jerkface. We're going to the kitchens for some ice cream. That always makes me feel better when I'm sad."_

 _And from that moment forward, Hattie Ryers was my best friend and confidante, and she has been ever since._

* * *

My years at Hogwarts coincided with five of James Sirius Potter's—he was a third year in my first year—and for reasons that I tried not to think about, he became my least favorite thing about Hogwarts very quickly. From the moment he saw me on the train, he made the subconscious choice to make my life a living hell whenever he possibly could.

Because without even knowing who I was or what kind of person I was, he singled me out for being different and never let me forget it.

That's why, when Hattie came thumping around the corner like some strange avenging angel, I was shocked when she offered me a helping hand and a sympathetic ear. The fact that she took me to the kitchens for ice cream was simply a bonus. For once, I had a friend who didn't care that I was different (she insisted that James was a meanie and a big, dumb liar), and as we giggled about the handsome Hufflepuff Quidditch captain over bowls of mint chocolate chip deliciousness, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

I never really understood why Hattie chose me to be her best friend (or how she knew where the kitchens were), but nearly a decade after the fact, I was glad that she did. In gloomier times, I chalked her friendship up to some case of overwhelming pity, but time and time again, she proved that assumption wrong. Hattie, for all of her Hufflepuff kindness, was a fighter and a protector. She was loyal to a fault, and nobody messed with her friends if they wanted to keep their nose free of the oozy pestilence caused by her wicked Bat-Bogey Hex. Over the years, she'd been there for me when I needed her the most, and I tried to do the same for her. Where the insults tore me down, she built me up. She told me that I was worth something when the world told me that I was not. I couldn't have asked for a better best friend than her.

As I finished recounting my tale, she hugged me again. "Oh Annie," she sighed, with a bit of a yawn in her voice. "You never can stay out of trouble, can you?"

I stifled a yawn of my own. "I guess not. Sorry I made you stay up so late to talk about this stuff."

She immediately gave me that Look of Disapproval that she dished out whenever I was being an idiot. "You know I don't mind. Tomorrow is my day off. Ethan knows that I need my sleep, so he won't be bothering me until the evening. Besides, sleep… sleep is for the weak."

She yawned again, and I gave her a little push. "Go to bed, you dweeb."

"Don't call me a dweeb, you dweeb."

"Fine, you butter-nosed daffodil. Go to sleep. Don't worry about me. I think this was just an isolated incident."

"What do you mean?" She looked confused in the way that only sleep-deprived Healers can.

"If you really think about it, London is a huge city. There's no way that I'm going to run into Potter _again._ I didn't tell him my name, I didn't give him any contact information, and I made sure to be as standoffish as possible. I'm not going to help Potter learn how to play pool. In fact, he's probably already forgotten about the whole thing. Stupid drunken sod…"

She smiled at me blearily. "That's nice. I'm proud of you."

"Go to sleep already, Harriet."

"Kay." And with that, she walked off to bed, leaving me to clean up the mess that the melted ice cream left behind. The dim light of early morning was beginning to peek through the kitchen window, and I sighed as I cleaned. I needed a hot shower and a nice, long nap to forget about the things I had been through that night.

As fate would have it, the universe wouldn't let me forget about it. Irony tends to strike at the least opportune times, and that night was rife with irony. Despite his excessive intake of alcohol, James Sirius Potter had _not_ forgotten about our interaction (whether or not he was a stupid sod was still up for debate), and he was bound and determined that I help him learn how to play pool.

And I would run into him again, but as I drifted off to sleep under my lavender sheets, the only thought on my mind was of the calculus and precision that it takes to be a good pool player.

* * *

Author's Note: …Whoosh. This chapter was one of the hardest ones for me to write, and I'm still not totally satisfied with it. What do you guys think? Too much exposition? Awkward flashback? (I finally revealed her name, though, which was a feat in itself.) If you have comments, let me know in a review! :D


	4. The Woes of Working Retail

Chapter Four: The Woes of Working Retail

A week had passed, and it seemed that I had proved myself to be correct. There was no sign of James Potter anywhere, although according to the i _Daily Prophet/i_ he was known to frequent Diagon Alley, where I spent most of my time.

If anyone in the Muggle world were to ask me what I did for a living, I would respond that I was "a shopgirl, but attending night classes in order to make myself more marketable for future employers." Like most of the personal information that wizards and witches tell Muggles, this statement was a half-truth.

I i _was/i_ attending "night classes," as I liked to call them, but I preferred to think of myself as the teacher, not the student. After all, when someone knew as much about the dignified art of pool as I did, how could she not impart some of her knowledge to her students? (For a i _small/i_ fee, naturally. Education doesn't come cheap these days.) Of course, my idea of a night class was vastly different from a Muggle's conception of one, but career choice is not a topic that I prefer to dwell on in social situations.

The part of my occupation that was the most truthful was the "shopgirl" part. Whether you have a respectable position in the Ministry of Magic or you only come out at night like the patrons of the Shooting Star, the face that you present to the world is the one that must meet the approval (or at least, begrudging agreement) of your parents.

That's the way it worked in our house, anyways.

And so, I couldn't just make a living getting rich off of cocky drunkards. I had to take a job dealing with the public.

After I graduated from Hogwarts, my mother urged me to look for work in the Alley. Much to her disappointment, I was dead in the middle of my class with a total of two passing NEWT scores—nothing special, but nothing too awful, either. That wasn't good enough for Mum. She expected nothing less than perfection, but she didn't get it from me.

Hufflepuffs have a reputation of being slightly dumb, slightly sweet, and having a slight tendency to blush in awkward situations. As such, people assume that working with the public in a shop or a tavern is a Hufflepuff's most desired career choice.

Utter baloney, if you ask me. Look at Hattie—she was near the top of the class in our Hogwarts years and she passed her Healer exams with flying colors last autumn. And I may not have gotten many NEWTs, but I would like to think that I'm not _dumb_. Or sweet, for that matter…

But NEWTs in Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures don't really lend themselves to a lucrative and illustrious career—at least, not in the Ministry of Magic. The only thing two completely unrelated classes are good for is a career working retail in Diagon Alley. (And I'm pretty sure that the examiner just gave me an A in Magical Creatures because the hippogriff was about to start a stampede…)

Of course, I couldn't tell her that I already had a career lined up, that Freddy Weasley had approached me right after we threw our pointy black hats up in the air so that he could give me his personal congratulations and talk business with me. So into the crooked little Alley I went, searching for places who would hire a girl fresh off the train from her last year at Hogwarts.

Job searching is no picnic. From the outside, it might look like you can stay at home in your pajamas and glance at the "Now Hiring" section of the _Daily Prophet_ , then send in an application with no fuss, but that is simply not true. I walked up and down Diagon Alley every day for a month in business casual and high heels, getting nothing but blisters and wolf whistles for my trouble. (Even outside the casino, wizards can be pigs. It's a serious flaw in our society, but the only thing that the Ministry was concerned about in those days was voting on trade restrictions with Wizarding Central Europe. Bah!)

Finally, finally, my prayers were answered and a "Now Hiring" sign appeared in a shop window. Without glancing up to see _which_ shop I was entering, I darted in out of the rain and demanded to speak to the manager. (It was a polite demand, though. No harm done.)

Despite my utter lack of job experience and credentials (and NEWTs, for that matter), the manager liked my confidence and aplomb. He hired me on the spot, and I'd been there ever since.

Stuck amidst the Quaffles and broomsticks of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

I was sure that there was some irony in this, but as I looked out the window into the grey, rainy afternoon, I couldn't see it. The shop had been particularly slow on that gloomy Tuesday, and I'd been there since it opened at eight in the morning. People outside the shop scurried by, ready to get home after the long work day. Nobody had any desire to buy Quidditch supplies and put me out of my miserable boredom.

"Are you looking for something to do, Anne?" my manager asked, poking his head out of his office.

Barry Goldbloom was a powerfully-built man, tall and sturdy with the muscles of a Beater. In fact, he'd played Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps up until a few years previously, when his injuries forced him into an early retirement. As such, he had a tendency to be surly, especially when it rained and caused his injuries to ache. He was just the sort of person to scold you for not doing anything, even though he wasn't doing a whole heck of a lot, either.

"No, Mr. Goldbloom," I called, trying to sound as pleasant and as busy as possible. "I was just going to reorganize the Keeper accessory aisle."

That was a lie. I had already organized that aisle a few hours earlier. But it satisfied Barry, who retreated back into his office the way an octopus retreats into a small glass jar—slowly and with great difficulty. (The modern office setting was not designed for use by burly ex-Quidditch players.)

I puttered around near the far edge of the shop, trying to stay out of Barry's view. Just because I'd kept this job for three years, didn't mean that he wouldn't fire me on the spot in a fit of irrational temper.

When I started working at Quality Quidditch Supplies, I didn't know the first thing about Quidditch. It never really held my interest at Hogwarts, and the British and Irish Leagues confused me to no end. But as the years went by, I picked up some knowledge about the ancient Wizarding sport and all of its gruesome attributes.

For one thing, the fans were _awful._ They were pretty much worse than fans of football. If a fan happened to walk in the shop on the day of a game, you had best have the WizTelly tuned to the right match, _or else._ And if the particular jersey that they were looking for didn't come in the right size, it was your job to make sure it was flown in on the fastest owl before someone sued you for "wasting time."

But if the fans were bad, the players were worse. If Oliver Wood happened to walk in to inspect the latest broom model, the red carpet was rolled out and the schmoozing from all sides began _immediately._ The _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ had long been known to turn up "by coincidence" when a famous Quidditch player came in to purchase some of Alistair's Finest Broom Wax or Madame Malcontent's Anti-Chafing Balm. (I never asked what this was for. The answer was probably something that it was better not to know.)

On the dreary, drippy Tuesday, as I straightened up the Broomstick Servicing Kits for the thousandth time, I cursed the fans and the players alike for being so rude and entitled. They came in and stayed for hours sometimes, and for what?! To buy some overpriced merchandise and mess up half the store?!

No wonder people thought that manners no longer existed.

Somehow, in the three years I'd spent in the garish sporting goods shop, I had never run into the likes of the Potter Monster. I mean, sure, I saw his mum sometimes and his agent, a flighty girl with a penchant for gossip, came in almost monthly. But up until that moment, I was never in the shop at the same time as him.

The obnoxious chime of the bell above the door drew me to my senses. Finally, a humanoid life form had come into the shop, no doubt to ask me questions that I did not know how to answer and to knock the perfectly-straightened merchandise askew. I dusted my hands off on my attractive (read: not attractive at all) black apron and went to greet the customer with a smile as fake as Splenda on my face.

His voice, coming from the front of the store, gave me pause.

"No, Mum, I'm not at the bar. I'm at Quality Quidditch, where d'you think?! Yeah, I'll be over at yours in time for dinner. Yeah. Uh huh. Love you. Bye."

My luck began and ended with pool. I swore that there was no way I would ever see James Potter again, and lo and behold, I had jinxed myself. He was here. In my shop. And that annoyed me.

Fortunately, James Potter had a WizPhone and a loud, obnoxious voice. Now that I knew who my customer was, there was no way on earth that I would reveal myself to him now, not with that awful encounter in the casino still hanging over my head. I ducked down and began to check that each box of merchandise was perfectly straight.

"Hello?!" he called, sounding impatient. "Is there anyone here?"

Curses. His voice _carried,_ and Barry was no doubt getting angry. He constantly made it clear that customers who came in near closing time were _my_ responsibility.

I had no choice but to face him and pray that his facial recognition skills were as terrible as they were at the casino. Reluctantly abandoning my post in the back, I crept slowly up to the register, hoping to prolong the inevitable.

Up at the front, Potter stood next to the register, drumming his fingers impatiently and staring out the window. He wore a wrinkled Kestrels jersey and a wicked scowl. In all honesty, I should have been the one scowling, as he was dripping _water_ all over my floor. As soon as he left, I would have to clean up after him, and doing Charms after a long day of work was not my favorite thing.

Still, I tried to sound like the bubbly Hufflepuff shopgirl that people seemed to think I was.

"Hello. Did you find everything you were looking for?" I asked brightly, sliding behind the register.

Throwing an object down on the counter, he continued to glare out the window. "Took you bloody long enough to get up here. I just want these Keeper gloves."

My heart leapt with anticipation and joy. He really _didn't_ recognize me, did he?!

"Absolutely, Mr. Potter," I nearly squeaked, ringing up his purchase. The mental slap that I gave myself would have knocked me off my feet if I had administered it physically.

Potter's head whipped around. "What did you say?"

"I—I said… Here you go! That'll be twenty Galleons, please!" I tried to cover for my mistake, but it was too late.

Potter drew out a dragonskin wallet, scrutinizing me harshly. "That's highway robbery, it is. Do I know you?"

Oh no. The unfortunate tendency to blush, while not being an inherently Hufflepuff trait, was one that I had inherited from my dear old dad. I could feel it warming my cheeks as I accepted his money. How was it possible for me to be so calm and collected at the Shooting Star, and yet so nervous and embarrassed at Quality Quidditch Supplies?!

"N-no. I don't believe we've met before," I said. His look of scrutiny relaxed, and he took his purchase with no further argument.

"Well, thanks… Anne," he replied, squinting at my name tag before turning to go back out into the rain.

I watched him walk out the door and down the street before I slumped against the counter, sighing in relief. "That was a close one."

"Did you say something, Anne?"

"No sir!"

"Did you help the customer?"

"Yes sir!"

I pulled out my wand to blast the wet floor with a Drying Spell, but before I could mutter the incantation, the bell chimed again. "Hello, welcome to Quality Quidditch Supplies, biggest and best supplier of all your Quidditch needs!" I chirped. It was yet another customer to prolong my day, but at least it wasn't—

"Hi."

Oh no. I looked up to see none other than James Potter himself, smirking at me devilishly. His wet hair dripped more water down his collar and onto the counter, and I knew that I would have a bigger mess to clean up than before.

I tried to adopt an air of nonchalance, a la Shooting Star. "May I help you, sir?"

"Oh yes, I do believe you may." Two can play at a game of chess, as it is said, and though I cast my gaze downward, I knew that he had arranged his features into a look of utmost pomposity.

"What do you seek in our shop today? A new broomstick, perhaps?"

"How about a _pool_ stick, hmm?"

Oh, this was too much. I looked up again, glaring. "I am afraid, sir, that we do not sell those in this shop."

His look of aristocratic superiority dropped back into his old familiar smirk. "Cut the crap, doll. I know you know who I am."

"And what if I do? It's not uncommon knowledge at this point, is it?"

"No, but that's not what I meant!" he cried, gesticulating wildly. "You were the one in the Shooting Star! You played that fat guy under the table! You are…" His voice trailed off and he looked around before whispering, "The _Pool Master._ "

There was nothing I could do but laugh. "What sort of a name is that?!"

It was now his turn to blush and duck his head sheepishly. "Dunno."

"A bloody stupid one, if you ask me," I chuckled, turning my back to him. "Good day to you, sir."

He caught my wrist and pulled. I spun around and was greeted by the sight of his face, which was closer than before, as he was leaning over the counter.

"I'm not finished with you yet."

I shook my hand free of his vice-like grip. "So what? I'm finished with you. Get out of my shop, and take your personal space issues with you!"

"Teach me how to play pool like you do."

"No."

"Fine."

And with that, he drew out his wand and pointed it at his other hand, which was splayed across the counter. I eyed his display suspiciously.

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, if you don't agree to be my teacher, I'm going to cast a Temporary Sticking Charm to my hand. One that only _I_ can remove. And then you'll be stuck here, because I _know_ that Barry won't let you leave until every customer has been helped." As he finished speaking, he raised his wand to cast the spell.

"Wait!" I grabbed his hand to stop him. "How do you know about that?!"

"My cousin used to work here. So, will you or won't you?" His smirk had settled into a playful grin. Potter actually thought this was a _game._

And yet, if it was a game, he was currently winning. I was stuck in between two equally stupid options: incur the wrath of Barry by having a belligerent customer, or teach James Potter how to play pool.

As much as I complained about my day job, I didn't want to _lose_ it. Mummy dearest simply wouldn't approve of that. There was only one possible way to go.

"Fine, fine," I sighed, letting go of his hand. "I'll teach you how to play pool if you promise not to stick your hand to my counter."

His answering beam could have blinded someone. "Thanks, Anna Banana! When can we meet?"

"Call me that at your own risk."

"Oh, sorry. Should we meet at the Shooting Star or—"

"Not there," I interrupted. It was simply bad business to mix work and… whatever this was. "Muggle London is a more ideal location. Find a nice, respectable pub somewhere and we can meet next Tuesday at eight."

He nodded. "Yes ma'am. You got it. Nice pub, next Tuesday at eight." Before he left for what would hopefully be the last time, he extended his hand. "It's going to be a pleasure to work with you, Anne."

I shook his hand, rolling my eyes. "I'm not so sure about that."

His only answer was a smirk over his shoulder as he left the shop.

Scarcely thirty minutes later, just as I was preparing to go home, a feathery object hit the front window.

"Anne, what was that?"

I sometimes regret using my middle name at work. My manager has a tendency to overuse it. A lot.

"It was nothing, Mr. Goldbloom. I'm leaving for the night. Goodbye."

All I received in return was a grunt, Barry's universal syllable. As one of his grunts could be interpreted in a variety of ways, I took it to mean "Yes, that's fine. Have a lovely night." Grabbing my umbrella from behind the counter, I strode to the door, bracing myself for the gale outside.

The mysterious feathery object greeted me with a soft "whoo?" as I exited the shop. An owl! The poor thing collided with the window and appeared to be getting its bearings, but when it saw me, it held out its leg.

I detached the letter from it, and the owl flew off again into the storm. Poor bird.

The sender of the letter had messy handwriting and the ink was almost unreadable on the rain-streaked parchment. Still, I could understand what it said.

"Anne—

I found a pub in one of those goofy Muggle phone book things. It's just off Tabard Street. The Snoozing Dog. See you at eight on Tuesday

—James"

As I read the note, I grinned. Tuesday evening would certainly be interesting if we were going to the Snoozing Dog.

* * *

A/N: It's been a while since I've posted on , whoops! If any of you would like to read past chapter four, I have eighteen chapters over at HPFF (under the penname UnluckyStar57), and I promise to post here more frequently.

Thank you to Irelandlover, who was the first to review. :)


	5. Ready, Aim, Miss

3 July 2014

Chapter Five

The following Tuesday saw me escaping from my shift at Quality Quidditch a little early. It had been a i _long/i_ day, longer than usual because the Quidditch season was getting ready to begin and we were having a sale on Quidditch apparel. The number of times I'd had to open the fitting rooms for people…!

My excuse to Barry was an almost-Slytherin concoction. At five-thirty, I knocked on the door of his office, a sheepish look already plastered on my face.

He grunted, not looking up from the latest copy of i _Quidditch Weekly./i_ They were running their annual "Ex-Quidditch Players: Where Are They Now?" article, and he was admiring his own abs in the glamour shots from 2022, no doubt. (I suppose if everyone had abs that toned, they would admire themselves, too. Or maybe he's just a narcissist.)

"Mr. Goldbloom," I began. "I am so, i _so/i_ sorry, but I have to get going a bit early. It's my mum's birthday, you see, and I'm supposed to be throwing her a surprise party…"

He tore his eyes away from the glossy pages to raise an eyebrow at me. "Are you lying to me, Anne?"

Well, iI/i thought that my excuse was pretty good, at least.

"No sir," I lied, making eye contact. If you make eye contact with people, they'll either feel so uncomfortable that they'll want you out of their way as soon as possible, or they'll understand that you are a confident and truthful person. "My mum's birthday is today. I've got to go and help set up. I made her a cake—seven layers, it is—and it's red velvet, which is her favorite."

In Barry's case, my eye contact only made him uncomfortable. He was used to people looking at their toes when they talked to him, as if he would kill them with one basilisk-eyed glare. Hah!

He shut his magazine and extracted himself from the chair, breaking our eye contact. i _Maybe I'm more intimidating than I look,/i_ I thought gleefully.

Edging around the cramped desk and filing cabinet that occupied half the space in the office (Barry himself occupied the other half), he opened the door and gestured me out. "You can go. I'll close. But you're not getting paid for the last half hour."

I didn't really need those Galleons, anyways. My past few shifts at the Shooting Star had been rather lucrative for both me and Freddy, who had proudly proclaimed me his "best bird" on Sunday night. That's probably as close to a compliment as the crooked wizard could come.

I darted out, grabbing my purse on the way. "Thanks, Mr. Goldbloom. Sorry about the inconvenience!"

I wasn't actually sorry. He was the i _manager/i_ of the place; it wouldn't kill him to actually do his job every once in a while.

Chuckling to myself as Barry was approached by yet another butterbeer-bellied customer, I exited the shop and Apparated home.

center~*~*~/center

"What's all this, Annie?" Hattie asked, wading gingerly through the piles of clothes that lined the floor of my room. "Are you getting ready for a date?"

As much as Hattie hated my sloppiness, she was always willing to forgive me if she knew I was going out on the town with a guy. She felt a bit guilty that she'd found her true love already, and she was determined to set me up with every cute patient or Healer that came along, just in case we would hit it off.

Most of the men she sent me on dates with were gay, but I wasn't going to tell her that. It would only strengthen her determination.

I indicated that I was brushing my teeth, humming noncommittally. Though I was wearing nothing but a bathrobe, Hattie perched on my bed and started combing through the clothes piled on it. I hated it when she did that, but I was willing to put up with it if she didn't try to "doll me up." I could do my own makeup, thanks.

"So, who is he?" she asked, trying to sound casual and nonchalant. (She didn't pull it off.) "Is it Adam from last month? I think you two would be is _o/i_ cute together! Or maybe your super-fit manager?"

I spluttered and nearly choked on my toothpaste. Spitting it out in my bathroom sink, I whirled around. "Barry?! He's got a girlfriend! And besides, I don't date Quidditch players. You know that."

"Never say never," she said in a sing-songy voice. (For the record, I didn't actually say never…) Holding up one of my more risqué dresses, she grinned. "I hear that Quidditch players are the best dates. But if you're going out with Adam, this would be just the thing."

Ruffling my hair with a fluffy lavender towel, I snorted. "I'm not going out with Adam, Hattie."

"Well, why not?!"

I rolled my eyes. She was starting to sound like my mother. "I don't really have much in common with Gringotts business tycoons. All he could talk about was stock and investments and how using Muggle compound interest was much more efficient than the Arithmancy system the goblins use. It was a bit… dry."

My complaints only made Hattie's eyes sparkle even more. "So, who is it?! Where are you going? Have you ever seen him before?"

I took the skimpy dress out of her hands and threw it on the floor. "Calm yourself. It's not a date."

"Pity. It's a perfect night for dancing."

With that elegant statement, she snapped a pair of my underwear at me and left the room.

"Oi, have fun on your date with Ethan! Tell him I said hello!"

"Not with that attitude, I won't!"

Drying my hair with my wand, I grinned. Hattie was a pain sometimes, but she meant well. But that night, I had an engagement that was far more interesting than a date.

I had a business meeting.

center~*~*~/center

It had taken several days of intercepting owls at work (I wasn't supposed to Owl while I was on the clock, according to Barry, who did it all the time) for Potter and me to reach an agreement about the evening. As a halfblood, I well knew that Apparating into the middle of Muggle London would earn us a few frowns from the Ministry of Magic. Surprisingly, I had to explain this fact to him in a sternly worded message. Considering who his father was, I would have thought that he would i _know/i_ about the Statute of Secrecy and the strict regulations for magic in the Muggle world.

But finally, finally we had agreed upon a place to meet. Due to my compulsive need to arrive early to every place I went, I mandated that we would meet a half-hour early, thus prompting the early termination of my shift. I didn't actually need all that time to get ready, but I took any chance I could get to escape from the grunting of Barry and the rudeness of our customers.

If a member of the Wizarding elite shows up late to an engagement, it is said that everyone else is simply early. That's what I'd read in the i _Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly,/i_ and other such tabloids, anyways. (What?! I work two jobs. I don't have time to read Keats and Tolstoy.)

So when I walked into the Leaky from the Diagon Alley entrance and didn't see Potter, I wasn't surprised. I wouldn't put it past him to forget to show up, even though i _he/i_ was the reason that I wasn't at home, wearing my pajamas and watching professional pool players on Muggle cable.

"Hello, Anne! What brings you out tonight?" Mrs. Longbottom called from the bar. Ethan Longbottom became friends with me on the Hogwarts Express in our first year, so I was well acquainted with the Longbottoms. In fact, I was something of a favorite of Mrs. L's.

"Hi, Mrs. L. I'm headed out to Muggle London," I grinned in answer. "How's the bar treating you?"

"Oh, not bad, not bad. You come round any time for some butterbeer, alright? It's on the house."

"Thanks, Mrs. L. See you later."

I smiled as I exited through the Muggle side of the Leaky. Butterbeer was always on the house. Mrs. Longbottom preferred that her darling Ethan and his best friends sate their thirst on a tame beverage, and she knew that twenty-something witches and wizards could never resist a freebie.

Although it was nearing seven-thirty, the street was crowded. Summertime meant tourist season in London, Wizarding and Muggle alike, and you could always spot the Americans. They were the ones sporting the Union Jack on cheap t-shirts and those harsh accents were always a dead giveaway. I leaned against the front of the pub, content to people-watch until Potter made his grand entrance.

"You're late," a smoky voice said in my ear. I looked to my left, only to be greeted by the Devil himself. He looked just as I expected him to: vee neck t-shirt (the plum color was unexpected, though), jeans that looked like they'd seen better days, hair done up in that just-got-out-of-bed-and-then-styled-meticulously-for-an-hour way. It was the typical Quidditch Bro outfit these days, one that met with the approval of witches of all ages.

In my opinion, he looked like the prat that I knew him to be.

I checked my watch. Seven-thirty-one. "I didn't expect i _you/i_ to be on time, Potter."

He smirked and flicked his hand dismissively, obviously proud of himself. "I'm never late. I'm a professional Quidditch player."

"That usually means that you're i _always/i_ late," I muttered, wading into the crowd.

"What was that?" Potter caught up to me and we stared down the street.

"Nothing. Taxi!"

While we waited for the black Muggle vehicle to pull up to the curb, Potter grabbed my arm. "You mean, we really have to go in one of those… death traps?" he gulped. "I'm not sure I'm prepared to die tonight…"

So the great James Potter was afraid of Muggle transport. This was useful information. "You won't die, Potter," I said calmly, sliding into the cab. "These drivers have been trained and licensed to drive people around. They know what they're doing."

Even so, he clutched the back of the front passenger's seat all the way to the pub, knuckles white against the black leather interior.

We were silent on the ride. He was too nervous to annoy me with conversation, and I wasn't about to instigate any dialogue. It would be a waste of my time.

Finally, the cab pulled to a stop in front of our destination. "Come on, Potter," I said, passing the cabbie his fees, including a generous tip. When you work in the service industry, you can sympathize with everyone, from fast food cashier to cabbie, on some level.

I had to grab Potter by the collar and yank him out of the cab. "What is your problem?!" I hissed. "He was a i _good driver._ "/i

"Thought I was going to die," he mumbled, looking away from me in shame. "Thought I saw my life flash before my eyes."

"You're insane." I rolled my eyes. "Come on. Let's go and get this over with."

The Snoozing Dog is, contrary to what its name would suggest, a rather raucous pub in the middle of London. It was also a place where some of the best amateur pool players in London congregated. I often frequented the pub on my evenings off, and almost all of the men there knew me as "that girl who beat me at pool." As such, I had garnered a sort of grudging respect from the bartender and the regular customers. It would seem that men were the same everywhere, but unlike at the Shooting Star, these Muggle men admired my talent before they admired my physique. (Although I still wouldn't have put it past some of them to look at my arse every time I leaned to shoot on the pool table.)

"Evening, Manny," I nodded as we entered. On a Tuesday, the Dog was fairly quiet. Most of the regulars had wives and kids, so that prevented them from drinking on weekdays if they were the honest sort.

"Hey, Miss Eight," Manny grinned. Manny was my favorite bartender (besides Hannah Longbottom, of course), not only because he was respectful, but because he usually chatted with me after I had won a few rounds of pool. He was a welcome relief from the surliness and suspicion that the Shooting Star bartenders dished out to me, as if they'd never seen a woman who refused to let them look down her shirt.

I wanted to stop and talk for a minute, but Potter was poking my shoulder. "What?" I hissed.

"How do you know that guy?" he whispered. "And why did he call you Miss Eight?"

"You could say that I'm a regular here, Potter. They call me Miss Eight because I _never_ miss the eight ball in a game." This was the truth. When I first started playing at the Dog, one of the players took to saying "Miss the eight, miss the eight," every time I took a shot at it. He went home drunk and embarrassed, never to return, but the nickname stuck.

"What's that?"

I sighed, shaking my head at Manny in despair. "Manny, my… acquaintance here would like me to teach him how to play the fine sport of pool. Are the tables occupied tonight?"

Manny eyed Potter, nodding slowly and turning to grab cue sticks and pool balls for me. "Fresh meat? He's got a lot to learn from you, Miss Eight. Both tables are wide open, and I can keep them that way if you want."

I waved my hand. "No need. I only need one table and one hour."

center~*~*~/center

As it turned out, I needed far more than an hour to educate James Potter, Quidditch Player Extraordinaire, about the fine art of pool. The real trouble began when he grabbed a cue stick from my hand.

"Which end is up?" he asked bemusedly, turning it over in his hands. Fortunately, the pool tables were housed in a room at the back of the pub and it was, blissfully, empty. If it were populated with Muggles, we'd be getting some strange looks from them.

I concentrated on centering the colorful pyramid, snorting at his atrocious ignorance. "If you can't figure that out, you'll never figure out how to shoot pool."

"Hey! It's not my fault that Muggles like to hit inanimate Bludgers with oversized wands! It isn't by i _choice/i_ that I'm trying to learn this stupid game! It's not even a sport!"

From the look on my face, he gathered that he had messed up. Big time.

I snatched the cue stick from his grasp. "Then why are you here, Potter? Nobody i _forced/i_ you to harass me until I agreed to waste i _my/i_ time on your ignorance of the Muggle world."

He held out his hands, trying to reach for the stick. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please teach me?"

My eyes flashed. "Listen. This. Is. Called. A. i _Cue. Stick./i_ Not an 'oversized wand.' The balls on the table are i _not/i_ inanimate Bludgers." I shoved the stick back into his hands. "And pool i _is/i_ a sport, one that is much more complicated and mathematical than your beloved Quidditch."

"If you insist," he muttered, sounding skeptical.

"Oh, I do," I muttered, striking the white ball and smiling as it broke up the perfect pyramid with a resounding _crack!_. "Now watch and learn, Potter."

A half hour later, he looked as though he was willing to admit that I was right. Because of his utter ignorance of all things in the Muggle world, I had had to start from the most fundamental rule of pool: The cue stick is not a club or a sword.

Common knowledge, right? Not according to Potter, who, even though I i _told/i_ him how to use the cue stick, was still flailing it around as if it were a Beater's bat.

I sighed, running my hand through my hair in frustration. "Potter, i _no./i_ For the last time, the cue stick is not a weapon of mass destruction. You need to use a smoother stroke if you're going to hit the cue ball."

He looked up, a smirk half-forming on his face at my almost-innuendo, but then thought better of it when he saw my glare. Setting the stick down, he slumped against the table. "I'll never get it right," he mumbled. "I'm doomed."

"Potter, I doubt that you're in a life-or-death situation. Pool is rarely that intense. Now stop leaning on the table like that. You're going to break it," I scolded, circling the table to stand beside him. When he didn't move from his position of despair, I shoved him and grabbed the cue stick, shoving it into his hands. Honestly, he was like a toddler who had decided that it was beneath him to do things for himself.

Placing my cue stick gingerly on the other table, I grabbed Potter by the shoulders and gave him a hard shake. He jumped back and stared at me, mouth agape and hair crazier than ever. "What was that?!"

"I don't know if you know this, Potter," I growled. "But you're kind of wasting my time by acting like a three-year-old. Now quit being difficult. Come here."

He approached and I grabbed the stick from his hands. "Now. You're right-handed, correct?" He nodded. "Okay. Your right hand goes here, on the thicker end of the stick. It's the hand that you use to i _aim_./i Your left hand stays up near the top of the stick. You're going to use your left hand to i _stabilize/i_ the stick against the table. Does that make sense?"

In the short time that I had been tutoring him, I had never seen him so focused. "Uh huh."

"Good. Now let's try shooting at the cue ball. That's the i _white ball,/i_ Potter. You're not allowed to hit any other ball directly with the cue stick. So take a shot."

He made an honest attempt, but his technique was completely incorrect. To his credit, I had never been a very good teacher.

"Here," I said, and before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed his left hand and arranged it in the proper position around the stick. "You need to keep the stick between your index and middle fingers, but hold it loosely so that it can glide. You see?"

In that moment, it seemed that something had finally connected in Potter's Neanderthal brain. I let go of the stick and he practiced aiming at the cue ball. For once, he was silent as he concentrated on the ball.

"Now hit it," I prompted him. He nodded and drew the cue stick back.

 _iSmack!/i_ The pleasant noise sounded as the stick made contact on the surface of the white ball. We both watched as it rolled across the table, ricocheting off the side before coming to rest… In the left corner pocket.

Potter looked at me expectantly like some sort of dog waiting for praise. "I did it!" he exclaimed. "I played pool!"

I could only laugh. "Not quite. That was only the beginning."


	6. A Drink With the Devil

4 July 2014

Chapter Six

After Potter grasped the concept how to hold and use the cue stick, the tutoring session lasted for nearly another hour. It was an hour filled with sighs of frustration (me), ruffling of hair (Potter), and strangled screams as unsuspecting pinkies were mashed by a rogue thirteen ball (me again, but it was Potter's fault).

Finally, I had had enough. "Potter, just stop," I groaned as he lined up the cue ball to shoot at the four ball. It was teetering right on the edge of the right corner pocket. Easy shot, right?

Wrong. He had missed it seven times already.

He looked up at me, cocking his head in confusion. "But we were just getting started!"

Did he sound i _disappointed_?!/i For someone who had scorned pool so rudely at the beginning of the night, he sure did change his mind rather quickly.

Nudging him out of the way, I began to shoot all of the balls back into the pockets. "Potter, as much as I admire your determination," I said. "I'm tired. Unlike you, I just worked a full shift for minimum wage. And besides, it's past my bedtime."

When I wasn't working late at the casino, I was tucking myself into bed no later than nine o'clock with a good book and a mug of chamomile tea. Hattie and Ethan mocked my "grandma tendencies," but they knew that I became a dragon when I didn't get a full eight hours.

"It's only ten-thirty! Who goes to bed this early?!" Potter exclaimed in shock. Squinting my right eye, I nudged the cue ball with the stick and sent the four ball that gave him so much trouble plopping soundly into the pocket.

I straightened up to face him. "i _I/i_ do, Potter. What's the matter with you?"

His hand was pointing stupidly at the table (which I had cleared of every single ball), his mouth agape. "H-how did you manage to do that so quickly?"

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. His reaction was very much akin to the looks of shock that I got at the Shooting Star when my opponents figured out that I was more than just a pretty face. "I've been playing pool for a while now, Potter. It takes skill, just like Quidditch does. You simply can't smack a ball into a pocket right off the bat. You have to work at it to be as good as I am."

He shook his head. "I guess I have more to learn than I thought."

I turned to retrieve the carrier for the balls. "Damn right you do. Now come on, let's get back to Diagon Alley before the Leaky Cauldron closes."

"No."

"What?" Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that look that was becoming so familiar: the James Potter Stare of Grim Determination.

He crossed the room and grabbed my hand. "I'm going to buy you a Muggle firewhiskey and you're going to tell me about how you got to be so good at pool."

Ugh. His palm was sweaty. No wonder he kept missing the cue ball. I shook my hand out of his and continued to remove the balls from their pockets. "Fine. But if we're not out of here by eleven, so help me…"

"Oh, come on, you stick-in-the-mud."

center~*~*~/center

The bar was even emptier at ten-thirty than it had been at eight o'clock. When Potter and I emerged from the back room, Manny smiled and waved us over to the bar. "What will you have tonight, Miss Eight?" he asked.

"I'll just have a beer on tap. Potter will have the same," I said before the uneducated pillock could open his mouth. We took our seats and caught the beers as Manny slid them down the counter. James, of course, caught his on the first try. (When I first ordered a drink from the bar, I dropped it because of Manny's wild sliding te chnique. From that time forward, he always made sure to slide with caution when I was around.)

I would have been content to sip in silence, but my acquaintance would have none of it. As Manny disappeared into the back, Potter nudged me. "So."

"So?"

"So, who i _are/i_ you? Who taught you to play pool like that? Did you go to Hogwarts? What year were you in?"

Ah. He was one of i _those/i_ people, the ones who simply must know about your whole entire life. Wonderful.

I regarded him with a stern expression. "Do shut up." He stopped talking, thankfully. "Now. Ask me one question at a time. Jesus."

"Okay, Miss Oh-Look-At-Me-I'm-A-Pool-Genius. Who taught you how to play pool like that?" Really, the flapping of the hands that were intended to mock me weren't necessary!

But he iwas/i asking a question that I liked to answer.

"My dad," I responded, taking a sip of the foamy beer. "He's played since before I was born. He used to beat all the lads in the village where he grew up, to the point where they would refuse to play with him unless he shot left-handed."

Potter laughed, and for once, he didn't look like a total jerk. "Is your dad a wizard?"

"Nah, he's a Muggle. But when he played pool, it was like he was doing his own form of magic."

Potter nodded and sipped his beer, then spluttered as it went down. "Gah, what i _is/i_ this?! It tastes like piss!"

Aaannddd… The jerk had returned. "Would you keep your voice i _down_?"/i I hissed. The patrons scattered about the room were starting to look over to our corner of the bar. "This is Muggle beer. If you can't handle it, I suggest that we leave. i _Now._ "/i

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Potter waved his other hand wildly. "No! I can handle it! I've just never had Muggle beer before. It isn't like butterbeer at all…"

"Very astute observation, genius," I muttered sarcastically. "And if you're going to say words like 'Muggle,' don't shout. You're more of a threat to the Statute of Secrecy than I thought! Didn't your father teach you i _anything?_ "/i

Potter took a tentative sip of his beer, grimacing as he swallowed. This time it stayed in his mouth, thank Merlin. "Actually, no. He didn't."

"Oh."

Misreading my expression as one of judgment (according to Hattie, I always looked like I was judging people), Potter shook his head. "Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. Dad did his best, but I never really cared about the Muggle world. Albus and Lily paid attention, though. i _They/i_ were his star pupils."

"Mumma's boy, are you?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I suppose you could say that I am," he said defensively. "I have more in common with Mum than I do with Dad, and all he ever did when we were growing up was talk about Muggles and Dark wizards and i _laws/i_ … It was boring."

Good Helga, were we i _actually/i_ going to have this conversation? What was I supposed to say to that?!

I didn't have to say anything. Years of being in the spotlight had trained Potter to be good at talking about himself. And he definitely seemed like a lover of the spotlight.

"But don't get me wrong, I love my dad," he continued, as if I had responded. "He's great, and what he does for all of Wizardkind is great, it's just that… Well, I'm not him. I don't want to catch bad guys. I don't want to think about international policy. I just… I want to play Quidditch. Does that make sense? You're not saying anything. Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Well, I would hate to interrupt your monologue, Potter."

My sarcasm earned me another sheepish look. Any more of those, and he'd be turning into a sheep right in front of my eyes.

"Sorry," he grimaced. "I do that sometimes. But I didn't ask you to have a beer with me because I wanted to talk about myself."

"If you're going to flirt with me, Potter, I can assure you that your time and attentions would be better spent elsewhere. For instance, in hell."

Potter's look of fright told me that my words were still enough to keep grown men shaking in their shoes. "No! That wasn't what I was trying to do! I just thought that I ought to get to know you, since it seems like we'll have to do more tutoring sessions."

I was momentarily at a loss for words. After all, what does one say to her childhood bully when he wants to "get to know" her? This situation was completely unprecedented. And all I wanted was to go home and sleep!

Before the silence trailed on any further, I found my voice. "That's… Awfully pleasant of you, Potter. And is that i _modesty/i_ I detect? What happened to 'pool isn't even a sport'?"

Potter shrugged. "Well, the fact that I couldn't even figure out how to hold a cue stick kind of killed my bravado, I think. Plus, if I'm going to win this bet, I need all the help I can get."

"And I'm the one that you're relying on. Brilliant," I rolled my eyes. "What bet could be so important that you have to go to great lengths to learn a new skill just to win it?"

Those sheep eyes again. If he wasn't growing a fluffy wool coat in the next five minutes, I was a house elf. "The bet is… complicated. More complicated than it should be, in fact. My cousin Freddy knows some things about me that could get me in trouble, and he's threatening to tell the i _Prophet/i_ if I lose the game."

Of course i _Freddy/i_ was the one blackmailing him. Blackmail was the tool that helped him become a mogul in the Wizarding World. "I see. But why is he making a game of pool part of the wager? That's a bit frivolous, I think."

"Freddy has always been a bit… frivolous, I guess you could say," Potter shuddered. "In fact, he's downright devious when he wants to be. All I know is that I've got to learn how to play pool by the end of next month, or he's going to leak my secrets to the papers."

Yep, that sounded like my boss, alright. However, this conversation was beginning to pique my interest. James Potter, darling of the Quidditch pitch, concealing secrets? And his father and brother in the Aurors, too! This was bound to be interesting.

"What secrets could you possibly have?" I asked, careful not to sound i _too/i_ curious. Digging up dirt on an old enemy is an art, and it was twice as dangerous if your source of information was your enemy himself. "What did you do that was so bad?"

Potter blushed. "I may or may not have gotten into some gambling trouble."

Ah, so he was one of the suckers that Freddy's side business chewed up and spat out. "What did you gamble on?"

"I'd… I'd rather not say, actually. Just know that if I lose this game, I will be known far and wide by the Wizarding community as James Potter, liar and cheat. And I'd rather be known as James Potter, Supremely Awesome Keeper."

"Aren't those the same thing?" I joked. He stared at me dumbly, as if I had just committed a crime.

"There are a lot of things that I've done wrong," he said in a low voice. "But I i _never/i_ cheat at Quidditch. Besides, this i _bet/i_ is a whole lot more serious than Quidditch."

"Oh, really? I had you pegged as the Neanderthal Quidditch Bro type who only cares—"

"I could end up in Azkaban."

Oh. This was news.

Potter hung his head, visibly wilting as I watched. His face grew paler, as if he had only just realized the repercussions of his actions. I almost felt a bit of sympathy for him (key word: i _almost./i_ This was a kind of karma). I knew what Freddy was capable of.

But he didn't even know that I knew his cousin.

"Would your cousin i _really/i_ do that?" I asked, lacing my voice with the slightest touch of concern. And the award for Best Actress goes to me.

Potter grabbed a lock of his hair and tugged on it. "Undoubtedly. He likes money and mischief, and he doesn't really care who gets hurt in the bargain. You can bet that if he notifies the i _Prophet/i_ of the scandal, there's going to be no way that they can pin him for anything, even though it's all i _his/i_ doing in the first place."

Typical Freddy. And yet, what Potter seemed to be telling me was that my boss was far more… i _illegal/i_ than I had previously imagined. This conversation was proving to be useful, after all.

In a fit of goodwill, I nudged Potter in the side with my elbow. "Cheer up, Potter. If the pool game is set for the end of next month, I'll have you whipped into shape in no time. After all, pool is fifty percent skill, twenty-five percent math, twenty percent concentration, and five percent luck."

"You really think I can become as good as you in six weeks? I failed Arithmancy at Hogwarts…" Potter mumbled.

"That may be true," I smirked. "But who knows? Perhaps the gods will smile on you and Lady Luck will come through for you."

"There's only a five percent chance of that, though."

"Well, it's a chance that you have no choice but to take," I pointed out, draining the rest of my beer. "Now come on. I should've been asleep ages ago."

He rose from his seat as I waved goodbye to Manny, and we ventured back out into the muggy summer night.

center~*~*~/center

The smooth movement of the dark taxi on the streets of London began to lull me to sleep as soon as I settled into my seat. I could feel my eyelids drooping from the weight of a long and eventful day.

Potter, however, had other plans. It seemed that his original fear of the taxi had worn off somewhat, and though he gripped the front passenger's seat as we rode, he was able to find his voice.

"So… Did you go to Hogwarts?" he asked, interrupting my thoughts of sleep. Perhaps that wasn't a bad thing. It isn't a good idea to fall asleep in a London taxi.

"Hmmm, what? Yeah, I did," I answered, yawning. Our conversation was masked by the brassy sounds of jazz on the cabbie's radio, so I didn't bother to shush Potter like I normally would.

"What House were you in?"

"Ummm, Hufflepuff."

"A Badger!" he exclaimed. I braced myself for whatever he was going to say next. "Very nice! My cousin was a Puff when he was at school. Maybe you knew him?"

"If the tabloids are to be believed, Potter, you have an awful lot of cousins."

"Oh, right, yeah. It was my cousin Hugo. He played Quidditch—Keeper, like my Uncle Ron and me." The pride in his voice was unmistakable, but it wasn't a haughty kind of pride. The guy really loved Quidditch, it seemed.

"Yeah, I knew of Hugo," I said. This was uncharted territory. I had to watch what I said, or Potter would figure out that I was the girl he bullied for five years. Talking to him was dangerous enough as it was without trying to dredge up the bitter past. "He was a few years below me, I think."

"Oh. What year did you graduate?"

"2024." Surely, if his memory of me had been erased, he wouldn't connect the dots, would he?

"I was a Gryffindor, class of 2022. But I don't remember seeing you around…" I held my breath, but he just sighed a bit and continued, "I guess I was too wrapped up in Quidditch and NEWTs to remember much of anyone in the years below. Sorry."

Excellent. My luck had not run out. His memory i _was/i_ as faulty as it originally seemed. "That's okay," I responded. "I never really cared about Quidditch at all, and I didn't really hang around with people in the year above me."

The cab stopped by the unobtrusive entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt, Potter was already out of the cab. In a surprising display of chivalry, he held my door open for me as I finished paying the driver.

"It's funny," he mused as I stepped out onto the street.

"What's funny?"

"How you claim to despise Quidditch, and yet you've got a job in a Quidditch shop."

I laughed. "Believe me, if I had any say in the matter, I wouldn't work in a Quidditch shop at all. It kind of sucks. Majorly."

He grinned as we entered the Leaky. "That bad, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. "You have i _no/i_ idea. But that's another story. Don't forget, Potter, that you owe me for the cab fare and the beer."

"Oh, right," he said, pulling out his wallet. "How much?"

I named a sum and he paid up. Nodding absently, I headed for the entrance to the Alley. Potter followed me.

Out on the cobbled street, I turned to face him. "Yes? Did you want something?"

As he loomed over me, he looked… uncertain. "I just wanted to say that… well, I had a nice time tonight. And I know that I have a lot of stuff to learn about pool, so… when can we meet up again?"

Ugh, apparently our business meeting had turned into something like a quasi-date, filled with awkward goodbyes. I reminded myself that it was all strictly for business on both sides—certainly on mine—as I responded. "I'll owl you this week, Potter. And perhaps next time we can discuss what's in this for me."

If I had learned anything from my boss, it was that you should always demand payment when making a deal with someone. Otherwise, they could screw you over and you'd be none the wiser.

Potter nodded vigorously. "Sure, sure. I'll come up with something, or you can name your price. It doesn't really matter to me. And can you… can you just call me James?"

I gave him a stern look. "I don't think so. We are merely acquaintances. I am not in the habit of being on first name terms with people I barely know."

He grimaced a bit. "Oh. Maybe you can change your mind later? And in that case, what should I call you…?"

I smiled derisively. "You can call me whatever you wish, but I will decide whether or not to respond."

With that, I turned to leave. There was no sense in prolonging my departure. Behind me, blabbermouth Potter was saying his final words of the evening.

"Alright, well, goodbye… Anne."

Thank Merlin for unassuming, graceful middle names.


	7. Learning from the Best

Chapter Seven

When I told Potter that my dad worked magic when he played pool, I wasn't exactly lying. Aidan Collins seemed like a simple man at first glance; he'd lived his entire life in the little village that I knew as my hometown, and he'd inherited the family mechanic business from my grandfather soon after I was born. He had a tendency to laugh a little too loud, to talk in funny voices to our pet Corgis, and to dance in the kitchen when he made us pancakes on Saturday mornings. You wouldn't be able to tell that he had any special talents just by looking at him in his greasy coveralls.

But for as long as I could remember, my dad had played pool. He would often come in late on Friday and Saturday nights from the local pub, not because he had been drinking (he'd been a teetotaler since he met my mother, who didn't approve of alcohol), but because he'd been playing pool—and winning. The stories he told about his nights were full of intrigue and mystery, and as children, my sister and I listened in wide-eyed wonder as he regaled us with tales from the smoky back room of the pub.

When I was seven, after much debate and deliberation, my mother went out and bought my dad the best Father's Day present that he would ever receive. A pool table, complete with heavy, ornately decorated legs and upholstered with green carpet, which sat in our family room and which he played on every night. The night he got it, I went downstairs to watch him play. It was the first time I can remember connecting the concept of pool to the physical game. (My mother, being wary of alcohol and pubs in general, refused to let Dad take us to the pub when a game was on.)

 _It was nearing ten o'clock at night, way past a seven-year-old's bedtime, but I couldn't sleep. Strange rumbling noises had been coming from the first floor all evening, and I wanted to investigate. I slid out of bed in my satin pajamas and tiptoed to my door, propping it open just a crack. Once I had ensured that Mum wasn't around to thwart my plans, I crept quickly down the hall to the staircase._

 _The step to avoid when walking down our stairs was always the third from the top. It creaked very loudly, and if either of my parents heard it, I would get in trouble for being out of bed. I held fast to the railing as I avoided the trick step and then continued on my way down. The rumbling noises grew stronger and were followed by some sharp 'cracks!'._

 _Safely downstairs, I sneaked over to the family room, which seemed to be the source of the noise. The door was slightly ajar, so I poked my head inside. What I saw amazed me._

 _We had presented my father with the pool table earlier that evening, but he'd had to do a few things at the shop after that, so he hadn't had the opportunity to play with his new possession. Now, though, he was fiercely concentrated over the table, still covered in a light sheen of sweat and wearing his coveralls from work. A cigarette (a vice of his that my mum rarely allowed inside the house) was clutched in the corner of his mouth, all but forgotten. As I watched, he pulled his cue stick back and then connected it to the cue ball with a firm 'pop!'. The cue ball sent a solid green ball flying around the table, knocking several other balls into various pockets. My father surveyed his handiwork with an approving eye, nodding to himself._

 _But the smoke from his cigarette had reached my nose. Before I could help myself, I sneezed. My cover was blown._

 _Dad turned to face the door and saw me crouched in the doorway. I braced myself for the scolding that was inevitable._

" _What are you doing up, Thrush?" he asked gently. Thrush was his nickname for me, a slightly drabber counterpart to my sister's nickname, Bluebird._

" _I couldn't sleep, Daddy," I said softly. "I wanted to watch you play pool."_

 _To my amazement, my father beckoned me inside. "Shut the door, Thrush. And don't tell your mother. She'd have my head if she knew I was keeping you up."_

 _Grinning, I shut the door and skipped over to the pool table. "Can you teach me how to play pool, Daddy?"_

 _He chuckled. "Not tonight, sweetheart. For now, you just watch and learn."_

 _And with that, he sent the balls flying around the table once more. To the eyes of my seven-year-old self, it was like magic to see them land precisely in the pockets with just one stroke of the cue stick._

" _Daddy," I whispered as all of the colorful spheres came to a rest. "Are you a wizard?"_

" _No," he answered, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'm something better. I'm a pool player."_

From that moment on, I vowed to be just as good at pool as he was. As the months went by, we settled into a routine: On weekends, I would sneak downstairs past my bedtime and watch him play. Sometimes he would give me tips about pool technique and then let me try them out for myself, but I mostly just liked to sit quietly and watch him work his magic.

Bea and I were getting older, and as time passed, the family room where we kept our dolls and dress-up clothes simply became known as "the pool room." The room had always been decorated with my father's old posters of Muggle bands, but with the addition of the pool table came the aroma of cigarette smoke and the scratchy sound of our ancient record player. I grew up listening to the likes of ACDC, Aerosmith, Queen, and other Muggle artists from the twentieth century. My dad swore that, even though the music was from his parents' time, it was the only music worth playing when a pool game was on. As he worked his way around the pool table, concentrating on lining up each shot perfectly, the music pounded into our brains, thumping with the steady rock 'n' roll rhythm that is still so famous today.

In our dimly-lit pool room, the air heavy with the smell of engine grease and the faint blue haze of my father's cigarette smoke, it was easy for me to imagine myself in much different surroundings. I watched him play and pictured him up against the burliest cats that the professional pool world had to offer. And as the music played on—the Beatles, the Zombies, the Rolling Stones—my father beat all of his imaginary opponents.

As I got older, Dad started teaching me more about the ins and outs of pool. Some nights he would line up a particular shot and have me shoot at it a dozen times over until I got the angle and stroke exactly right. To him, pool was a craft that had to be mastered just like any other pursuit. And even though the teaching got tedious at times, I was always happy to learn another lesson or play another game. I had been a daddy's girl from day one, but playing pool with him made us grow closer than ever.

Although he sometimes worked until all hours at the shop, Dad never said no when I asked him if he wanted to go play pool. We would set up a game—me racking up the balls and him breaking the neat triangle to begin the game. Of course, I always lost to him, but playing against him helped me improve my technique. I watched him and learned things without him having to say a word. It was in those moments that I learned what true magic was, not the kind that my mum shot out of her wand to clean the house and sort papers for work.

Mum was a witch with a secretarial positon in the office of the Minister of Magic at the time, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Every single part of her was movement, from her flyaway brown hair to her fluttering hands. She was always busy, rushing about to get things done and never taking a break. Her attitude and mannerisms were in sharp contrast to my father's, but they somehow rounded each other out—his calm steadiness with her frantic busyness.

However, my relationship with Mum was nowhere near as friendly as my relationship with Dad. Mum had been near the top of her class at Hogwarts, and she attended a Muggle university after she graduated so that she could be more versatile in her career. I, by contrast, was more like my dad, who attended university for a few years before deciding that the academic route was not his true calling. Instead of books and classrooms, I wanted to learn from experience. I didn't want to do the boring exercises that we were assigned in our textbooks, and my mother disagreed with my reluctance to do my schoolwork. Homework battles were always hanging in the air above our heads, and though I was only doing primary school work, she pushed me to do extra problems and read ahead in the chapter.

I had always been stubborn, and her pushing only made me more reluctant to do work. This, in turn, led to more scoldings, which led to a somewhat strained relationship between us. As a result, whenever I needed something or someone to talk to, I ran to Dad.

Those father-daughter moments we shared, talking about school and the shop and pool, were some of my favorite memories from childhood. I would run downstairs to the pool room and he would already be there, setting up the table for a game. It was the kind of magic that only parents can have in the eyes of their children. My father was not a wizard, but he was the most magical person I knew.

It was at the pool table, with my father, that I showed my first signs of magic.

 _It was the summer after I turned ten. Magic had become a pressing subject in those days, because I simply had not shown any sign of power yet. I, of course, didn't mind one bit, but Mum was constantly on edge around me, scrutinizing me with her hawkish eyes to see if I would finally live up to her expectations._

 _If there was any particle of magic inside me, it wasn't going to show itself on those hot summer days. Beatrice had finished her first year of Hogwarts and was too busy hanging out with her new magical friends to pay attention to me, and Mum was starting to make me nervous with her constant hovering._

 _So it was to Dad that I told my problems._

" _I don't even want to do magic," I complained as he set up the table for yet another game. It had been a hot, muggy day, and the poorly-ventilated basement was muggier and hotter than it had ever been. I could feel sweat trickling down my back as I threw my frizzy hair up into a ponytail._

 _Dad gave me a look. "Why don't you want to do magic?"_

 _I huffed at him. This was the question that everyone had been asking—my mum; Beatrice (when she was paying attention to me); Beatrice's snooty magical friends; and Grandmum, Mum's mother from Kent, who had recently come for a visit. I didn't want my dad to ask the same question. I thought that he, of all people, should understand._

" _Daddy, I just don't care about magic like Mum and Bea do. It isn't worth going away to a school in Scotland just to learn about weird spells and stupid potions," I explained._

 _Dad wasn't going to have any of that. "Listen, Thrush," he began. "I know that your mum has been putting a lot of pressure on you lately, but that doesn't mean you should hate magic."_

" _But—"_

" _No, really. When I met your mum, I had no idea that magic even existed. After we got married, she explained all about the world that she lives in. Her tales of the wizards and witches of Britain are really fascinating. You should ask her to tell you about them sometime."_

" _I don't think she loves me anymore," I mumbled, aiming a haphazard shot at the eleven ball. The cue ball went flying in the opposite direction of where I intended it to go and I turned to look at my dad, pouting._

 _He was looking at me down the bridge of his nose with his bushy eyebrows bunched together like a big furry caterpillar. It was a stern look for him. "Portia," he started. I knew it was serious because he was using my detestable first name. "Your mother loves you very much. Never doubt that. She just wants you to be a successful witch."_

 _I sighed and stomped my foot. "But I don't/i_ want _ito be a witch at all! I want to play pool!"_

 _Suddenly, my dad's face changed from stern to surprised, his lecture forgotten. "Sharon!" he bellowed. "Sharon, come here! Quick!"_

 _I threw him a puzzled look. "What's wrong, Daddy?"_

" _Look," he whispered, pointing behind me. I whirled around to face the pool table and gasped in shock. The colorful pool balls were floating nearly a foot off of the table. As I watched, they began to move around, clacking against each other in a magical dance._

" _Daddy, what's happening?" I whispered. "Who's doing that?"_

 _He put a hand on my shoulder and the balls froze in the air. "You are, my dear."_

That day was the first time I can remember my mother praising me. She claimed that she knew it would happen eventually, that I would go on to be a great witch one day, and that she couldn't wait to take me shopping for my Hogwarts supplies. She had high hopes of me being Sorted into Gryffindor like she and Bea had been.

I failed to meet most of her expectations, of course. I went to Hogwarts and was Sorted into Hufflepuff almost as soon as the Sorting Hat touched my head. I had trouble with practical spells and proper pronunciation of the incantations. And sometimes, I would have random flare-ups of magic that I couldn't control. It all came as a product of being a late bloomer. Being a "great witch" was never in the cards for me.

But I did graduate from Hogwarts, and I did go on to become a witch—not a great one, but not a bad one, either. Additionally, I became a pool player like I had always dreamed, although I wasn't playing on the professional tables just yet.

Layers of foundation. Heavy eyeliner. Mascaraed eyelashes fluttering like spiders' legs. Hair sprayed with products that were more like portable cement than actual hairspray. It took me much longer to get ready for work than to get ready for my meeting with Potter. As I adjusted my earrings and patted my carefully-styled hair, I smiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I thought that my life had turned out as well as could be expected. Three nights a week, I got to play the game that I loved the most for an actual paycheck, and that was alright by me.

I was, first and foremost, a pool player.


	8. Not All Men, But Most of Them

16 July 2014

Chapter Eight

It had been another long night, and I was exhausted. But then again, there had been a rapid succession of long nights within the past two weeks, and my "night job" was just beginning to wear me thin.

I arrived at the Shooting Star approximately twenty-four hours after I had said a curt goodnight to one James Potter, whereupon I was immediately greeting by the handsome and sleazy grin of his cousin. (Handsome to those who don't know him; sleazy to those who do.)

When Freddy Weasley was a small child, he was exposed to the legendary stories about pranks and tomfoolery of the infamous Weasley twins that his father (one half of that dynamic duo) told him at bedtime. It was in those early formative years that he decided he would be just like his father and his own namesake—just like them, but i _better_./i And thus began the reign of Freddy Weasley at Hogwarts. He was about five years older than me, but word of his outlandish pranks still lingered after he had dropped out in his seventh year.

It would seem that George Weasley and his son had one thing in common: they could both run a successful business without having garnered any NEWTs or other academic achievements. But the similarities stopped there. George Weasley ran a business of repute, one that catered to the glee of the entire Wizarding World and invented new spy gear for the Auror Department on the side. Freddy Weasley ran a business of repute—yes, the Shooting Star was classy—but the casino's reputation was tarnished by all of Freddy's… underground businesses.

I tried (and failed) not to think of all of this as I casually shoved past my boss on the way to the pool room. His grin—more of a ghastly leer, really—did not fade. He and James seemed to have that in common.

"Good evening, darling," he called after me. His tone of voice made me stop. Any day that Freddy Weasley greeted me as if he were an upstanding creature of the law was a day that I would have to watch out for.

His grin only widened when he realized that he had my attention. He approached me with all of his usual swagger, though the pinstriped zoot suit that appeared to have come from the Muggle 1940s wasn't doing his short, stocky frame any favors. Before I could fall into step beside him, he grabbed my arm and tucked it into his elbow. To the rest of the world, we were masquerading as a gentlemanly casino owner and a lovely (rich) customer. To us, it was a game of poker. Freddy knew that I hated being patronized, especially by him.

To lose my job, or to play along? The latter was always a better option.

"Mr. Weasley," I gasped as the slimeball pulled me along. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Although he was about four inches shorter than me, he was not deterred from leaning up to whisper in my ear as we waited for some patrons to cross from the bar to the Muggle slot machines. "I have a business proposition for you, Annie." I could hear the smile in his voice, so I answered it with one of my own.

"Oh?" I asked, batting my eyelashes coyly as we started walking again. "And what if I do not accept?"

We were at the entrance to the empty pool room now, and he allowed his smile to sink into a sinister glare. "Then you'll be out of a job, won't you?"

Pleasant tone, threatening face. Though he did not scare me, I knew better than to argue. I had learned everything I knew about acting from Freddy Weasley, and though his tone said, "Pleased to meetcha," his words and his face said, "You'll agree if you know what's best for you."

So I did. "Well, Mr. Weasley, thank you for escorting me to the pool hall," I smiled, babbling like the rich socialite that everyone thought I was. "I just i _love/i_ watching the boys play pool, don't you? It's such a i _fascinating/i_ sport."

The thunderclouds cleared from his face and he gave me a genuine look of approval. "Yes, miss, it is quite the sport," he nodded. "Now, I'm going to leave you here and go take care of my other customers. I'll see you later." And turning away, he did just that. "Ahh, Barney! Long time, no see!"

If my boss weren't the owner of a casino (and several mysterious side operations), he would have been an actor. I sighed and turned to face my kingdom. Everything was as it should be, balls in their pockets, cue sticks lined up on the rack, each table stocked with blue pool chalk.

Stepping into my role as a pool player made my exhaustion from the night before vanish. I was ready to play some pool. All I needed was an innocent, drunk gentleman to oppose me.

I flicked my wand and the old record player, refurbished and polished so that it shined even in the dim light, began to emit the tunes from the days of yore…

center~*~*~/center

As it turned out, there were plenty of innocent, drunk gentlemen to oppose me, and I made quite a lot of money. However, it didn't come without cost. Hazards of being a professional pool hustler who happens to be female include:

Groping.

"Hi there," the drunken man slurred, leaning in a bit too close. "How are you tonight?"

His hands had come into contact with my shoulders as I stood, frozen, in my pool-shooting stance. There was only one thing I could do.

Turning around to look up at him, I fixed the most innocent grin that I could muster upon my face as his hands crept lower. "Hey there, handsome," I purred. "You look like you could teach me a thing or two about pool. And then maybe…"

He chortled, barely noticing that I had removed his hands from my body and replaced flesh with a wooden cue stick. "That sounds wunnerful, hon."

Sucker. Got 400 Galleons off of him.

Excessive Pet Names.

My next victim—errr, customer—of the night was a weedy-looking man in a trenchcoat and a fedora. A fedora! His face was covered with the beginnings of what could only be called a "neckbeard," and he smelled of old socks and cheap whiskey—like he hadn't bathed in weeks.

Of course, his outward appearance and disgusting personal hygiene didn't dissuade him from flirtatious advances.

"Evening, love," he greeted me, adding in a wink for good measure. "What does a kitten like yourself feel about a game of pool with me?"

My face contorted itself into an expression that had all the makings of a smile, but it did not reach my eyes. "Sure thing, sir."

He grinned, obviously enjoying being known as a "sir." He probably didn't get respect from anywhere except the Shooting Star and the various Knockturn Alley pleasure dens that he no doubt frequented. "You betcha, darlin'. A cutie like you has a lot to learn from me."

The rest of that interaction went basically the same way, with the man pulling various demeaning pet names out of his ass—baby, sweetie, doll, muffin, honey-bunches-of-oats, and others that I scarcely cared to remember. Needless to say, he had been drinking before he entered the pool hall, and his glass of firewhiskey was of the sort that automatically refilled itself every time he drained it dry. He must have been the sort that runs up quite a tab at the bar…

But for all his nauseating flirtation, he left me with his pockets drained quite as dry as his glass was not, grumbling about women and their insane amount of luck.

I could only smirk and throw a rude gesture at his retreating figure as I watched him leave.

They should know by now that it isn't luck I'm operating on. It's skill.

Over Usage of Sexual Innuendo.

If there was anything I hated about my job, it was the fact that a good number of my opponents wanted to do the old "B&B"—beat me (at pool, of course!) and bed me. Sexual innuendo was never a stranger in my interactions with the sweaty men that haunted my pool tables, but sometimes I got a customer who was especially well-versed in the not-so-subtle art of hint-dropping.

"I can put a ball or two in your pocket," someone whispered, far too close to my ear. The foul breath and slimy tone of voice almost made me lose my concentration as I aimed for the orange five ball—i _almost./i_ I took a wild shot and missed by a mile on purpose. If he thought he had unhinged me, he would regret it later on.

I giggled, but it sounded forced and one hundred percent fake. He was too drunk to notice my terrible acting skills. "What do you say, sexy?" he grinned lecherously. "Wanna check out my stroking technique?"

Gag. This was going to be one tough customer. "Oh, I bet I've got a lot to learn from you," I said, teeth clenched and fists tightened.

The rounds of pool that followed were filled with the same sort of lewd remarks that one might hear in the smelly confines of a Hogwarts fifth year boys' dormitory. In order to escape from this, I upped the wagers and played him broke in only three rounds.

Of all my customers that night, he was the drunkest. And the richest, but he walked away poor.

The overly sexual ones are my least favorites.

It was nearing the end of my shift when I was visited by a man that I hated more than all of my drunk customers. The hall was empty, a slow, smoky song was playing, and there was nothing to bother me as I brushed the blue pool chalk off of the green-carpeted tables.

"So we meet again."

I groaned and turned to face the shadows that had gathered in the corners of the dimly-lit room. James Potter apparently had no idea when his presence was not needed or wanted. "Go away."

His answering grin reminded me of a puppy that is reunited with its owner after a long time apart. "Do you come here often?"

What a line. He sounded like he was reading from a script of the newest Wizarding soap opera to grace WizTellies all over the nation: i _The Life and Times of Harry Potter./i_ Besides, his delivery was badly timed. He should have taken acting lessons from his cousin.

I rolled my eyes. "You really shouldn't be here, you know."

He pouted at me and came closer. "Why not? It's a pool hall. You're teaching me how to play pool. Why can't we play here?"

A quick glance at the clock caused me to spring into action. It was almost time for Freddy to return to speak to me about his "business proposition." If Potter were present, awkwardness could ensue, considering that I was Freddy's employee and Potter was Freddy's cousin.

I rushed towards him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to the farthest corner of the room from the door. If anyone were to look inside, they would only see shadows.

i" _Muffliato!"/i_ I hissed, glaring at Potter. "Potter, do yourself a favor and use your brain, for once. i _Why/i_ would it be a bad idea for us to play pool at this casino?"

His eyes glazed over as he thought about it. I tapped my foot impatiently. He really was a lot dumber than I thought, though the Bludger injuries that his head was subject to must have aided in the deterioration of his brain cells.

"Umm, I really can't think of a reason," he finally replied. "Except… Freddy…"

I nodded, rolling my eyes. "Yes, Potter. Very astute. You see, you and Freddy have a bet going on. I frequently play pool at his casino. If Freddy found out that you were seeking help with your atrocious pool technique on his turf, he might get angry. And then I wouldn't be able to play pool here anymore, and you would lose your bet by default. Is this beginning to make sense?"

At last, a spark of intelligence! Watching him connect the dots was like watching a four-year-old put the last pieces of a puzzle into place. Except Potter was nowhere near as cute. Or intelligent.

He shook his head. "I can't believe I didn't think of that."

"Oh, I can," I muttered.

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean? It was the only way I could reach you, considering that you never returned any of my owls yesterday and I can't go to Quality Quidditch Supplies without being bombarded by the paparazzi most of the time!"

My eyebrows shot up. "Oh, you i _poor, little/i_ rich boy. Some girl doesn't return your owls? You can't i _stalk her at work/i_ because a newspaper reporter might take your picture?! You had to turn up at a casino i _on the off chance/i_ that she would be there?! Gee, your life must be i _so/i_ difficult."

He opened his mouth to retort, but I cut him off. "No, you idiot. I am not your servant or one of your devoted fans. You cannot expect me to answer your every summons, to always be at your beck and call. And you i _cannot/i_ be seen communicating with me here. I—"

But it was his turn to interrupt me. "But i _why/i_ are you so concerned about what Freddy will think? Why is it a bad idea?"

That made me stop for a moment. I wasn't going to tell Potter about my less-than-savory night job. To the outside world, I appeared to be a ditzy blonde who happened to get lucky placing bets at the pool tables. Freddy helped me just as much as I helped him—he sent me the gullible, overconfident drunkards and I scammed them for all they were worth. It was a beautiful system, really. But Potter couldn't know about it.

"Potter, your cousin and I have known each other for a while. He considers me a loyal customer of his casino. You, however, are an opponent of his, and I'm sure that you know how Freddy feels about his friends helping out his opponents."

Potter shuddered slightly. So he i _was/i_ capable of thinking things through. "Point taken. But that doesn't excuse you from letting my owl fly back and forth without an answer!"

I rolled my eyes. "I've been busy. Don't you have better things to do than to send letters to me?"

"No."

His brows were furrowed in the most intense expression I'd seen on his face. I chuckled.  
"Why so serious? It's only a game of pool," I quipped.

"But that's just it, isn't it? It's actually i _not,_ "/i he retorted. "My career, my reputation, my entire i _life/i_ hangs in the balance of this bet, and I can't play pool for beans! i _You/i_ know that. You told me that at least a hundred times last week. What I don't understand is why you said you would help me and then ignored my requests for help!"

"I only agreed to i _this/i_ because you forced me to," I scoffed, gesturing between us. "Trust me, if I'd had my way, you would've left Quality Quidditch Supplies without even realizing that I was the same person that you'd met in this pool hall. And so, I chose to ignore your owls because I don't want to play games with you, i _Potter._ "/i

His name was like acid on my tongue. In that moment, I hardly registered that I was giving Potter the long-overdue wrath that he deserved. My words applied to the situation at hand, of course, but they were also a part of the rant that I had written in my head during those awful years at Hogwarts, when I was too scared of him to truly stand up for myself.

That night, I was making up for that fear with anger. But he was angry too.

His eyes flashed with fury as he stared into mine. In my painfully high stilettoes, we were within an inch of each other's height, which meant that he wasn't looking down at me like he used to. We were eye to eye, and it was time for the showdown.

"What is your problem?" he asked. His voice was level, but anger simmered below the surface. "You don't know me. I don't know you. What could I have done to you to make you act so awful towards me?"

That made me laugh. "As if you don't remember. I seem to recall a time not so long ago, when you entered this hall and tried to i _seduce/i_ me into teaching you how to play pool. Ring any bells?"

"Yes," he responded. "But that's no more than the guy before me had tried to do, and no more than what those guys tonight were attempting."

i" _Attempts/i_ is the key word here, Potter. If I wasn't charmed by their words, what made you think that you could charm me with yours?! You must think you're such hot stuff, having the whole Wizarding World cheering for you on the Quidditch pitch. Well, I'm no fan of yours!"

He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at a lock in frustration. "I was i _drunk_ ,/i okay?! It was the night that Freddy broached the subject of the bet, and I got caught up in worrying about what it could mean for my future! You talk about me like I'm some idiotic Neanderthal, and you know what? I might not be as smart as someone like Freddy, but I i _know/i_ that this is one of the lowest points of my life so far. Listen, I'm i _sorryi/_ that I acted that way. I'm i _sorry/i_ that I acted the same way at the store. I'm i _sorry/i_ for whatever it was that made you hate me so much."

He finally trailed off as he ran out of things to apologize for, but my reply was laced with the venom that only time and the need for vengeance and closure could bring.

"How sweet. Ickle Potter thinks he can just apologize for the mess he's made and it'll just go away. That's pretty naïve, even for i _you._ "/i Even as I spoke, I could hear Freddy's loud chuckle at the door. No doubt he was trying to escape from the company of a particularly drunk guest. "Now get out of my face, Potter. And don't even bother owling me." I glanced at the doorway to see my boss's stocky silhouette. This dramatic meeting was running into overtime, and we were cutting it close.

"It's i _James,_ "/i he mumbled. A loud i _crack!/i_ told me that he had Apparated away, but as Freddy entered the pool hall, I barely registered his comment. Later, it would come back to haunt me as I discovered that maybe, just maybe, I had been too harsh on Potter after all.

But in that moment, I was filled with a sort of sick glee. Glee that I had finally been able to give James Potter a taste of the hell he'd given me. Glee that I'd won. Glee that he would leave me alone in the future. And glee that Freddy hadn't been able to hear our argument or Potter's Apparition.

"Oh Annie, dear!" he called. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! It's time to talk business."

It had been another long night, but it was nowhere near over.


	9. The Boss and the Business Proposition

21 July 2014

Chapter Nine

I emerged from the shadows, matching Freddy's rather boyish grin with a small smile of my own. "Wotcher, Annie," he greeted me, clapping his hands together. "It's been a successful night, hasn't it?"

"Well Freddy," I responded, waving my wand nonchalantly in the air. "If you mean financial success, then I am inclined to agree. However, I found that the customers you sent me were… rather unsuccessful."

His grin widened as he took the Galleon-filled pouch I handed him. "You're never one to let a man catch a break, are you, doll?"

I bristled at this objectionable pet name. Freddy Weasley knew about my dislike for such names and the things that came with them, but he liked to rile me up. It was one of his "inside jokes" that was only a joke for himself and not for those whom the joke was about. Despite my inner annoyance, I allowed myself to chuckle.

"You know as well as I do that it would simply be unprofessional of me to engage in that sort of behavior in this pool hall," I said. "Besides, the customers you sent me were so drunk that they scarcely registered the fact that we were playing pool. It was like taking candy from a baby. A little wink, a little smile, and they were mine. You must have very little faith in my abilities if you send me such sots."

He waved his wand, magicking the purse off to the heavily-guarded safe in which all profits from the night's proceedings were stored. In the morning, they would be taken off to a Wizarding bank overseas, right under the noses of the Gringotts goblins. It was perfectly legal, but it didn't please them in the slightest.

"Anne, you know that's not the case," he pouted, Summoning a cue stick. "I have the utmost faith in your abilities, but tonight was a slow night. I thought I'd give you a little fun."

Winking, he flicked his wand, setting up the perfect pyramid of pool balls on one table. My insides were screaming from exhaustion at this point, but I snagged a cue stick all the same. In the midst of sloppy drunks, Freddy Weasley was my best (and most alert) competition.

"I'll break."

"Go right ahead."

But his eyes burned holes in mine as my stick connected with the cue ball.

The game had begun, but the game we were playing was not merely a game of pool.

center~*~*~/center

Oh, it was a casual enough game, all things considered. When your boss is as competitive as you are, you have to keep your wits about you at all times, and the banter is perhaps not as flirtatious or as lewd as that of regular customers.

But soon, I sank my last colorful ball (the red-and-white striped eleven) into the right corner. Our eyes met. His were still burning in that odd way, and something told me that once I sank the eight ball (which was inevitable at this point), there was no turning back from whatever he was going to propose.

I angled my body so that the cue ball was perfectly in line with the eight ball. Lower right corner pocket, simple shot. i _Crack./i_ It was gone.

Freddy's eyes still burned.

"You play pool extraordinarily well."

"Yes."

It was not through my own arrogance that I responded in such a callous manner. He was stating a fact. The only thing for me to do was to validate that fact. It was our game that we played, one that had never led me into danger, so long as I stuck to the script. When your boss has a flair for the dramatic arts and a potentially shady background, you tend to play along with him. It's simply survival instinct.

He sauntered around the table and stopped at the cue ball, lining up a shot at his remaining solid purple four ball, although the game had already been won. "You want to make a career out of playing pool."

"Yes."

He took a shot. "You never envisioned yourself in this job."

"No."

The four ball rolled slowly across the table, landing with a light i _plop/i_ in the left middle pocket.

"Let me make you a deal."

So this was it. The business proposition that he was so eager to talk about. I could see it in his posture—the clasped hands, the quirking at the corners of his mouth, the way he rocked back on his heels. But his eyes were still burning, and it bothered me very much.

"Ah, your proposition," I responded coolly, trying not to look away from his eyes. It would have been easy to look away, to avoid that burning gaze, but it would show weakness. And I was not a weak person. "Do tell."

That grin again. For a stocky wizard, his face looked positively skeletal in the light. "You've heard of my cousin James."

"Yes."

"You know that he has a tendency for… gambling?"

"One might assume so, considering that you are his cousin."

He did not show any outward sign of displeasure at my slight insult. "Well, Annie, Jamesie has gotten himself into quite a pickle," he purred. If ever the image of a cat eating a canary became applicable to a human being, it would have been in that moment. "He has gambled himself into a sticky situation that he just can't get out of. You see, he borrowed some money from one of my… esteemed friends, and he found himself unable to repay him."

"And so you offered to alleviate him of his debt?" I asked nonchalantly, perching on a tabletop to remove my heels.

"Clever girl! I did indeed offer, as any good cousin would do, but he refused. I often tell him that his pride will get the best of him."

"It does make fools of us all."

"How right you are! So, to teach our Jamesie a bit of a lesson, I made him a bet."

"A bet?"

"Of course. It is the only way, you see. His secrets exposed, or his debt repaid. There is only one option, and he alone controls the outcome."

"And what, might I ask, does this bet involve?"

His hands could scarcely contain themselves; they unclasped themselves and gesticulated wildly as the man they were attached to spoke. Freddy seemed to have no idea that he was losing his cool, demonic exterior. He was almost… maniacal.

"It involves pool, Anne. Pool! A Muggle sport! And my arrogant cousin, may Merlin bless his soul, has no idea how to play this game, or even what it entails. And yet, in about six weeks, he will have to play against an unbeatable opponent. It is the perfect bet. I have no way of losing."

"And what will he give you if you win?"

"He will stand by as I leak his secrets to the newspapers—the i _Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly,/i_ even the i _Quibbler!/i_ All of his dirty laundry, aired for the world to see! News of his gambling problem, his bouts of alcoholism, the brothels that he frequents—all told by yours truly, anonymously, of course."

"Of course," I furrowed my brow in confusion. "But why are you doing this to your cousin? And how can you guarantee that his so-called 'unbeatable opponent' will win the game?"

He came closer to me, and I was briefly reminded of the moment that I met him for the very first time. His eyes looked just the same, but in the smoky silence of the empty casino, I knew that evil thoughts were broiling behind them.

"Because, dearest Annie," he chuckled. "Jamesie is not such a good boy as his mummy thinks he is, and the world deserves to know it. And besides," he continued, closing the distance between us so that we were nearly nose to nose. "You'll be the one that he'll be playing against, so how can he win?"

I turned my head casually to the side. Weasleys and Potters and their constant need to encroach upon people's personal space was a genetic trait and a pressing issue, apparently. "And what if I refuse to play against him?"

"You won't refuse."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I'm going to help your career get off the ground."

Well. This was news to me. I turned my head back toward him slowly, raising my eyebrow in disbelief. "What do you mean by that?"

"You don't want to play pool in the Shooting Star for the rest of your life, do you?"

"It wasn't what I had in mind for a lifelong career, no."

"You want to play professional pool. Muggle style."

"This is true."

Freddy had been my boss for a good number of years. And he was surprisingly perceptive for such a conniving bastard. He knew from the moment he offered me a job that I only considered it a stepping stone of sorts. He also knew that without the proper funding and exposure to the Muggle world of professional pool, my job in his casino would be permanent.

"That's where our business deal comes in. You see, I have money. You have skill. I can help you make it big in the Muggle world as a pool player."

"And how do you propose to accomplish that?"

"Let's just say that I have… Connections."

Freddy Weasley, working with Muggles? The world was getting stranger by the minute, but the prospect of professional pool was so intoxicating that I couldn't stand it.

But there was one vital question.

"Why me, Freddy? Why pool?"

Freddy grinned his most devilish grin and tossed me a wink that has been known to make drunk heiresses swoon. (Though admittedly, that might have been because they were drunk.) "Annie, Annie, Annie. A better question would be, pool? Why i _not?/i_ Pool is more exciting, more electric, than poker or slots or darts. And everyone knows that you can't play slots professionally. There's no career in that. Now, while poker is quite lucrative and darts contain that thrill which only comes from hitting a target precisely in the center, pool is the real high drama sport. And you know how I love my drama…"

Freddy Weasley was a great supporter of the dramatic arts. Not only was he a fine showman in the casino, but he'd been in a few off-Diagon Alley productions of Shakespeare and was well-known to donate a generous amount of Galleons to amateur theatres all over Britain. Pool, especially the way I played it, drew him in like a moth to flame.

His next sentence caught my attention almost as much as his business proposition did.

"And Annie, you know how things work around here. You know me, I know you. After all, you are my best girl."

That, coming from Freddy Weasley, was not a slight or an empty pet name. He was a businessman first, before he was an actor or even a wizard, and he had implemented a technique in the Shooting Star that Muggle advertisers all over the world employ on a daily basis: Sex sells.

Or rather, the promise or even the vaguest hint of sex. I wasn't the only professional hustler in the casino. Freddy employed girls at the slots (which were rigged by magic, of course), at the card tables, the dart boards, even the i _bar/i_ had girls who were planted there in order to get the patrons so drunk that they gambled away their earnings. It was a rather clever ploy, and it was an indication of the sort of customer that the Star attracted that no one had caught onto our ruse yet.

And he had called me, his only pool hustler, his "best girl." It was the utmost form of flattery, and even though he was a former Slytherin and a shrewd, deceitful person, I knew that he meant it.

"Th-thank you," I stuttered, losing my composure a bit. I tried to save face by continuing the conversation. "You want me to beat James Potter at pool."

"No, Annie. I i _know/i_ that you will beat Jamesie at pool."

"Otherwise…?"

"Otherwise, you will lose your job and I'll make sure that you never play pool in public again."

Ouch. The glint in his eyes had intensified, and it was because he could tell that his words had hurt me. Talking with Freddy Weasley was like trying to handle a double-edged sword: You had to be careful, or you might cut yourself. Freddy, for all his success and respect in the Wizarding community, was a bit of a sadist. He liked to watch people suffer, which is why he put my job in the balance of his wicked bet with Potter. I had no choice but to agree.

"Of course I'll beat James Potter. He will hardly know what hit him." I did not include the fact that I knew about the bet, that I had already been approached by the Quidditch player in question. That would become one of my best-kept secrets.

Freddy inclined his head solemnly. "So you will, Annie. So you will. Now, you're off tomorrow night."

"And I planned to enjoy it."

"Good. You can come and enjoy it with me."

All bosses, whether they manage a Quidditch store or run a successful casino, will find new and interesting ways to take up your free time without paying you for it. It was simply a part of life.

"Alright. When and where?"

"Tomorrow night. Ten o'clock. Meet me in the back of the casino, and I'll take you to meet my friends."

His grin told me that his "friends" were very dangerous people. I was jumping in over my head, but in the wee hours of that morning, the rewards seemed to outweigh the risks.

"Of course. I look forward to it."

He said nothing, but sashayed out of the room in a way that only he could pull off, tossing me a grin and another wink over his shoulder.

I leaned against the table and sighed. One fight, one business deal, and all because two cousins were at loggerheads with each other. And I was the girl entrapped in the middle. It was going to be an interesting month, that was for certain.

Especially because I knew things that Potter did not, and I knew things that Freddy did not. I had managed to place myself on both sides of the thrice-accursed bet, and I planned to use it to my advantage.

I knew that I would have to eat crow the next morning. I would have to apologize to James Potter and re-extend my offer of tutoring.

But first, it was time for me to sleep.


	10. Aftermath and Arrangements

23 July 2014

Chapter Ten

The early morning sun invaded my room through the flimsy venetian blinds, stealing through the shadows to greet my eyelids with a gentle kiss as I slumbered away the exhaustion of another hard day's night.

I opened my eyes just a crack and shut them immediately. So much for sleeping in. I really should have invested in some curtains when I moved into the room facing the sunrise.

"Ugggghhhhh." Instead of rousing myself to begin the day, I turned over to face the purple wall, tangling my sheets around my bare legs. It was my day off and there was no sense in getting up before I absolutely had to.

My eyes preferred the sight of purple to the sight of sunrise, and I slowly began to drift away again. In sleep, no thoughts of the night or senseless bets or Freddy Weasley or James Potter could assault my dreams…

Wait. I jolted upright, forgetting my desire for sleep. Thoughts of last night were coming back to me, and they were occurring more quickly than I would have liked them to. My brain pieced together the information as if I were just coming down off of a hangover.

"Potter… Freddy… the bet… professional pool… Freddy's friends… Oh Merlin," I mumbled. My voice was heavy with sleep, something only a heavy dose of coffee could cure. Thinking through my interactions with the two cousins from the night before, I remembered the fact I kept from Freddy: that I had met James Potter, and had promised to tutor him at pool. For Potter, I would have to keep the opposite secret: that not only was Freddy my boss, but that he had also enlisted my help concerning the bet.

And on top of all of that nonsense…

I groaned and flopped over into my array of colorful pillows. Potter and I had fought at the casino. I said some very nasty things to him—and I meant all of them—but a tense atmosphere was hardly conducive to a healthy tutor-student relationship. That would require some patching up.

A quick glance at the clock told me that it was only half past eight. I had an entire day before my meeting with Freddy, and in that time, I had to do some major damage control. Disentangling myself from my sheets, I half-walked, half-stumbled over to my cluttered desk.

But before I could pull out my quill and parchment, I heard a rap on my window. One of Potter's owls, back again? When we said our awkward goodbyes on Tuesday night, I told him that I would owl him during the course of the week, but that wasn't good enough for James I'm-the-Greatest Potter. On my day off from the stultifying Quality Quidditch Supplies, the Quidditch player sent me no less than three different owls—two of them from the Kenmare Owl Post Express Office—before my shift at the Star on Wednesday, and I sent them all back with no answer.

Big mistake. My lack of communication had driven him to enter the lion's den that was the Shooting Star in order to seek me out, which led to our fight…

"What a bloody mess," I mumbled, drawing up the blinds and shielding my poor eyes from the sunlight. The owl perched on my windowsill gave me a curious look (if owls can be said to look curious, that is) as I struggled to open the window with one hand.

"Fine, you bloody bird," I growled, jerking the window open at last. The owl gave a self-righteous hoot and hopped inside, offering me its right leg. "Thanks, I guess."

I removed the missive with clumsy fingers and gestured towards the owl cage in the corner. "Go on, eat up. Sephronia still has some food left over from yesterday."

The bird clacked its beak in gratitude and flew over to the cage as I opened the letter.

It was not Potter's handwriting.

"Dearest Annie,

I hope you've slept well, and I hope that this letter finds you awake. (You probably think it's early, don't you? People in the adult world wake up before eight o'clock on the weekdays, you know.) Anyways, just wanted to remind you that you need to meet me at ten. Wear something nice. It's kind of a big deal.

div align="right"XOXO,

Freddy"/div

Freddy. Of course. I looked over at the little owl, which had an uncanny resemblance to the owl post office birds that Potter had sent me the day before, with its small body and golden-brown coloring. Freddy had a tendency to change messenger birds on a weekly basis, just so that the magical authorities couldn't keep track of his correspondence as much as they'd like to. He tended to go for more flamboyant birds, however—the bird he used the previous week had been a golden-breasted starling, native to Africa. I never asked where he got his vibrantly-color, nonnative missive carriers, but I was certain that it couldn't have been through legal means. It was a rare day when he deigned to use a normal owl to deliver his all-important notes.

Tearing off a bit of parchment, I wrote my reply:

"Freddy,

I'm not your 'dearest' anything. I still remember the time and place we're supposed to meet. I know to wear something nice. You don't have to remind me.

div align="right"Anne"/div

With one slight gesture from me, the bird was back at my fingertips. I tied the letter onto its leg and gave it an affectionate pat on the head.

"Bite Freddy for me, okay?" The bird nodded (if birds can be said to nod, that is) and flew off into the ghastly sunlight. I shook my head. Damn Freddy and his surprisingly intelligent birds.

Settling back into my comfy desk chair, I gave my task a lot of thought. If I sounded too pleasant in my writing, Potter might believe that I was planning on being his friend. If I sounded too mean, he might get angry all over again and refuse to meet up with me. Neither outcome sounded appealing, especially when I thought about how he started tormenting me as soon as he met me…

center~*~*~/center

 _iIt was my first time on the Hogwarts Express, and I was hopelessly lost. The compartments were all filled with people in the upper years, people who had established their friend groups already and didn't seem to need any more company. My usually endless supply of confidence was beginning to plummet when I found an empty compartment._

" _Phew," I muttered, lugging my trunk behind me._

 _But I had only gotten the chance to shove my trunk in the storage compartment and sit down when I was interrupted by the opening of the glass door._

" _Come on, James, let's sit in here," a familiar voice called. I groaned inaudibly. The person attached to the voice was none other than my sister, Beatrice, who was entering her third year with high marks on her exams, a new haircut, and lots of friends._

 _She stepped into the compartment, closely followed by some girls who wore the same kind of red-and-gold tie that she did, and some boys with the sort of carelessly-styled hair that takes hours to pull off. As she gabbed to her friends, she didn't notice me hunched in the corner of the compartment._

 _Finally one of her friends, a tall, gangly boy with glasses and dark hair, looked over at where I sat._

" _Hey, Bea," he interrupted her, nodding in my direction. "Looks like we've got an ickle firstie in our compartment. What's your name, firstie?"_

 _Before I could stutter out a response, Bea had grabbed my wrist. She yanked me up forcefully, her fingers digging into my skin. "Oh, this is no one," she said, her voice full of disdain. "Just my sister…"_

 _As her voice trailed off, I pleaded silently with my eyes./i_ Don't say the name, don't say the name, don'tsaythename…

 _i"Porky Collins. She can leave."_

 _Her friends, including the boy who had spoken to me, all started laughing. I could feel my eyes starting to brim with tears, so I turned away to grab my trunk. As I whirled around, trying to wade through the laughing third years, I ran into the dark-haired boy._

" _Whoa, watch out, Porky," he smirked. "You might cause an earthquake if you're not careful."  
And so I made my escape amidst their laughter./i _

center~*~*~/center

When she returned from Hogwarts after her second year, Bea quickly made it known that she wanted nothing to do with me. She was always off with her friends, coming home with stories about the magic that their parents did and begging Mum to let her get her hair styled like her friends did. I was nothing but her little sister, seemingly magic-less and slightly chubbier than the average ten-year-old.

The insults began with "Squib" and got worse from there. Soon, she was telling me that I was a fat, useless Muggle every time we crossed paths, and finally, she sabotaged my first name and turned it from "Portia" to "Porky." It was no wonder that I didn't want to be a witch, because I knew that if I went to Hogwarts, her insults would continue and perhaps even get worse. I never expected to run into her on the train, nor did I expect her to unleash the awful name as soon as she thought I was encroaching upon her territory.

James Potter was not my first bully, but he was the one who took the name and ran with it. After that awful incident on the train, Bea never had to insult me again. Potter did all of her dirty work for her. Even as a first year, I was certain that it was his all-too-obvious crush on my sister that compelled him to begin, but it was his own adolescent maliciousness that caused him to continue.

And so, as I began my "apology note" to the despicable James Potter, I wondered why I was even bothering to do so in the first place. There was the allure of Freddy's business proposition, of course, and the fact that if I could teach Potter how to play pool like a proper gentleman, it would be a far sweeter victory for me when the time came. But then again, the way he had acted at the Snoozing Dog and again at the Shooting Star was confusing to me. The James Potter who bullied me would never ask me to call him by his first name, nor would he apologize for something he believed he did wrong. My written apology would have to be just as sincere as his verbal one was, although I didn't mean all of it.

With memories of my awful Hogwarts years swirling through my mind, I finally dipped my peacock feather into the pot of violet ink and began to write:

"strikePotter, you ugly toad /strikeJames,

I must strikeask you to apologize for being an idiot /strikeextend my sincerest apologies for our strikefight that was your fault/strike altercation strikelast night/strike early this morning. strikeYou said/strike I said some things that I strikereally did/strike truly did not strikebut actually i _did/istrike_ mean, and I could tell that it upset you greatly. For that, and for not returning your strikefar too many/strike missives, I am strikenot/strike sorry. However, I must ask you that in the future, you refrain from sending more than one owl per day. I will strikenot/strike do my best to answer promptly strike(no I won't)/strike from now on.

I think that strikeI need to punch you in the face /strikewe need to talk. Would strikeyour face /strikeyou be able to meet strikemy fist/strike me at Café Lumos on Vertic's Alley at half one this afternoon?

div align="right"strikeNot at all yours /strikeYours strike(in)/strikesincerely,

Anne"/div

I read over my work and sighed heavily. The first draft was finished, and though it had taken me about half an hour longer than it should have, it was oddly cathartic. It felt good to write nasty things about him and accuse him of idiocy on a parchment that I was supposedly going to send to him. The letter itself would have to be rewritten; it was messy with my crossed out insults and my sloppy left-handed scrawl. Potter might have had poor eyesight, but he would have no trouble reading the spots that I had crossed out.

Sipping my coffee (which I had gotten while taking a procrastination break from writing the letter), I pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began to rewrite, this time in my neatest handwriting. I left out the insults, but I still added them in my mind, cackling to myself as I wrote.

Finally, it was finished. I signed my name with a flourish and called for Sephronia, who was perched in the tree outside my window. My crazy barn owl much preferred basking in the sunlight to napping in her cage, a thing that we disagreed upon almost daily. She glided to the windowsill, giving me a stern look for interrupting her nap.

Only Sephronia could make me feel bad for asking her to do her job. "Listen, Seph," I said, waving the letter in the air to dry it. "I'm sorry for making you do this, but it's absolutely necessary, I'm afraid. Could you deliver this to James Potter for me? You've got to go over to Kenmare, which is a far stretch, I know. I promise that I won't make you do anything else today."

Sephronia cocked her head. She was incredibly intelligent, and even though I didn't know Potter's address, I knew that she would be able to find him. She would stop over at the Diagon Alley post office, where she could be redirected to the address of the most famous prat of our generation and sped on her way with the specialized magic of the Wizarding Postal Service. Holding out her leg slowly, she gave a condescending hoot.

"Oh, don't give me that," I muttered, attaching the letter to her leg. "It isn't exactly my fault…"

But the lovely barn owl was gone before I could finish pouring out my troubles to her. I doubted very much that she actually cared, anyways.

I watched her fly until she was only a speck against the hot summer sun and then headed off to the shower. Merlin knew that I deserved it.

center~*~*~/center

The answer came quickly—about an hour later. It took me by surprise to see my owl coming back to me and perching on my desk with her leg extended expectantly. My hair was still damp from the shower, as I couldn't be bothered to dry it with a quick charm, and I had barely begun to think of how I could possibly phrase my verbal apology to the prat. Sephronia took off as soon as I removed the tiny scrap of parchment from her leg, bound for her favorite branch so that she could avoid any more letter carrying duties. Lazy bird.

On the scrap of parchment, Potter had written one word that was hardly worth the Express Flight spells that he paid for in order to send Sephronia back so quickly.

"Okay."

I crumpled the parchment and blasted my hair with a Drying Charm. "Hattie!" I yelled. It was almost twelve-thirty and I hadn't seen her even once. Her room actually faced the side of the building that didn't get blasted by the morning sun, so she typically got a lot more sleep than I did. (This was probably also down to the fact that she had tasteful curtains and decorated walls and an eyeshade, but I never was very good about decorating, anyway.)

Going into the kitchen, I saw Hattie in all of her pajama'd glory trying to pour herself some tea from the kettle. She was yawning as she did so, and therefore, she was about to miss her cup. I thought it wise to interrupt this disaster waiting to happen.

"Whoa, Miss Neat Freak, you're going to spill that," I grinned. She stopped yawning and trying to pour her tea, shooting me a bewildered look.

"Thanks, Annie. When did you get up?" she asked, pouring her tea the proper way this time.

"Oh, four hours ago. I suppose you slept in?"

She grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. Long night. A woman came in with her face stuck in a haunted toilet plunger."

The stories from the graveyard shift at St. Mungo's never ceased to amuse me. Witches and wizards were highly accident-prone, and Hattie's patients were often the worst of the lot. "Oh really? How does a toilet plunger become haunted? And how does said haunted toilet plunger end up stuck to one's face?"

She sat down at the table and I joined her after pouring myself another cup of coffee. There was plenty of time before I had to meet Potter, and I wasn't planning on looking terribly nice for him.

"Well," she sighed. "As it turns out, there are a couple of steps. First, one must die of asphyxiation by toilet plunger. Then, one's soul must remain to haunt the bathroom, and subsequently, the plunger itself. Then, a living being must move into one's seemingly vacated flat. And clog the toilet. And then attempt to use the toilet plunger that is haunted by the ghost of the dead party."

I snorted. "That sounds rather complicated. Why couldn't the ghost just haunt the toilet, like Moaning Myrtle does?"

Hattie giggled. "I asked the ghost that myself. She told me that it was the toilet plunger's fault she was dead, so she chose it instead of the leaky U-bend of the toilet in her flat. Needless to say, the woman who had her face stuck in the plunger wished that the ghost had haunted the toilet instead…"

Hattie and I continued to regale each other with tales of our ridiculous night jobs for a little while, but when the clock struck one, I stood up. "Sorry, Hats, but I've got to go out in a bit. Is Ethan coming up from Somerset tonight?"

She blushed, causing me to grin. "Yeah, it's his day off from the sanctuary. I actually get to sleep through the night, too, because Healer Bones has generously given me the afternoon shift tomorrow. We're going on a date." Ethan Longbottom, our best friend and fellow Hufflepuff, was Hattie's long-time, long-distance boyfriend and a plant specialist at the Modesty Rabnott Snidget Reservation in Somerset. They'd been dating since our seventh year, when he finally mustered up the courage to ask her to go to Hogsmeade with him. Even after all this time, the mention of him caused Hattie to blush. I was slightly sickened by how lovey-dovey they could be, but they were the cutest couple in the entire Wizarding World. I was happy for them, although I constantly marveled at how they were able to keep up such a good relationship while both worked full-time jobs and lived so far apart.

"Well, good," I responded, putting my cup in the sink. "I'll probably be seeing you before you go off on your little outing. See you later."

"See you." As I walked down the hall, I heard her turn the faucet on. Hattie's neat freak tendencies counterbalanced my utter sloppiness, which worked out well when I didn't want to wash my own dishes. I wasn't taking advantage of her, though. With my hard-earned money from two ridiculous jobs, I paid the Wizflix bill every month. And if there was one thing that displeased Harriet Ryers, it was not being able to watch the newest episode of i _The Life and Times of Harry Potter,/i_ the soap opera released solely by Wizflix that chronicled (rather inaccurately) the entire life of the Boy-Who-Lived.


End file.
